I drove out to the garden and paid my admission, walking to what they call the Iris Dell, and what I irreverently refer to as ‘the place we tipped your mortal remains into’. Iris Dell sounds nicer.
There’s a bench (shaded, mostly owned by mosquitoes and a few brave mice).
I sat on it and told you about my year. There is no need. I of all people know that death really does nothing but move physical presence to the space between heart and lungs.
I did it for me, not for you. When all of the hurt and sadness and anger is gone, when I let that float away because I do not need to hold on to it, I have the best of you, and I miss that.
So I told you that your best friend sold the house and is moving to a condo, about my MBA and work stuff and how Mr Spit has to have shoulder surgery. I told you what went well and what I was worried about.
I read ChurchGoing to you and walked back to the Japanese garden and I rang the bell for you, waiting until it stopped reverberating.
Happy 69th Birthday mumsy.