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Sometimes it feels like the world is unimaginably big, and other times it feels like you could hold it in your hand.
The first time he held my hand, we were dancing. Bill and Dot had taken to the floor and Arthur had looked at me a little shyly and tilted his head to ask, and I’d nodded, stepped towards him. We were clumsy together, no grace. But I remember the warmth of his hand, and the size of it, how my hand almost got lost in it, how he smelled clean and like comfort, and I remember feeling safe and protected. Now, in this bed we’ve shared for years, he is not himself. He is gone. His body, which carried him for almost nine decades, is useless and empty.
‘It was spring of 1961, showers on and off all day. But in between, brilliant sunshine. There was a wonderful rainbow.’ ‘A bit like marriage, then,’ he says.
Why do we wait until people are dead to talk about how we felt?
She laughs, and it’s unexpected and surprisingly joyful, like the room is suddenly full of bubbles.
The price of living a long life, I think, is the sheer weight of the losses you have to suffer. You carry each loved one you lose, and they stack up, and it becomes unbearable. I tick them off in my mind. Brother, father, mother, husband, and my friend, my love.
What was it like, seeing her again after all these years?’ How to answer that? It was like a miracle, like finding a four-leaf clover or seeing an eclipse. And at the same time it was like nothing much, like being with your best friend. Comfortable, and easy.
We all have something that’s broken us, I suppose. Nobody gets away unscathed.
