Friday, April 3, 2015

Four years.

He's four years gone today and I still remember the call, and I'm still not right for it.

My mother rang me Wednesday just gone, 19 minutes before I was due over for dinner. 

She wanted me to bring gravy, she'd run out and we were having beef.

Every time my parents ring unexpectedly, or pause before speaking, I expect bad news. 

More will come, and it has, though none like that day, thank God.

Gradually I stopped writing for fear someone else would go. As if this blog, had some sort of strange, dark power.

I told the story, of that day, to a friend only last Sunday and she started to cry. 

She'd never met my Granddad but when I told her that when my Granny heard the news she stood up and asked to be brought to him, at the bridge, where he lay, my friend cried for them.

On the day of his funeral Granny said that things would never be the same, and they're not.

For a man who said very little, his presence is missed. There's a hole in the front room, the kitchen, that'll never be filled. 

Something about the weather. Whist, the news is on. Turn up that radio while you're passing.

Still though, lovely day for it.

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