Stepping off the Cliff

Post Christmas: I discovered on returning home that my cats had inadvertently been locked out of the house (but it seems, only for one day, so thank goodness for that); they are all intact and very affectionate. I also discovered a splash of mercurochrome on a part of my white skirting board, which is disconcerting (from Lexi, of course, and her cheek) but the wound is perfectly healed up. All this after a six-hour drive, hectic all the way with never ending Christmas traffic, but uneventful.

I spent six days with K and her family, and it was fine. The first evening we spent with the children at Monte Casino, where they have restaurants bordering a large courtyard with a fountain and a chiming clock. We sat at a table watching our two little ones and scores of others running around. SB and S had miniature scooters they could scoot on as the musical fountain with lights, played - of course - Christmas music. I found tears very quietly - something to do with the way little two-year-old S trotted around, or his sister took his hand, or the back of their innocent, enchanted heads - but the tears were brushed away in spite of the fact that F would have loved to have been there.

The days leading up to Christmas day took both forever and flashed by, but dawn it, eventually, did, and there we were under a mercifully cool and grey South African sky but I could not help remembering the frigid French grey of the chateau and the fact that F did not even know it was Christmas - but no matter now, today here was family and delicious food and new toys. We did the day efficiently, and skirted round our memories. I blocked out thoughts and got on with the little ones, or took a really heavy pan of something hot and fragrant from the oven, or talked small but happy.

I am leaving grief, I have had enough of it. I am changing my bleak interior landscape. I am determined to change this landscape. Yesterday was our wedding anniversary, of all things; it would have been number forty one, and I thought I would dread it. But all was remarkably calm. I could even remember back to that large day with amazement, and think how innocent and brave we were - or how ignorant - as we had no idea of the life in front of us or who we were; we had known each other for only three months.

There we were stepping off a cliff into a future of doubtful wedded bliss! Isn't it crazy that uppermost is the importance of what one is wearing - which fabric, style, which length of dress, which flower? What music, place, food, wedding invitation?

Numbed by Eglonyl yesterday I was completely calm, thinking back to that wedding day. I was a serious bride, I hardly smiled. I wish I could have it all over again, I would throw myself at it. I was somehow unthinking and trusting, but tenuous; I clutched F's hand and I suppose he clutched mine with as much recklessness although doubt hardly ever entered his mind, ever. F was a remarkably confident man. I followed his blazing path for 39 years and in his death now I find myself still bowling along. But is this so bad?