Comfort Nosh

It’s been a month since the old git flew the nest.
A little robin visited perching on the back of the garden bench and hopping around on the garden table.
Sid decided to satisfy his cravings and kill it.
We couldn’t be angry with the cat, he’s missing the ‘oosbind too.
So now we await the entrance of another spiritual visitor.
We buy flowers regularly. There are vases in the kitchen the bathroom and bedrooms. Roses, are good. sunflowers don’t last and bunches of sweet peas are pretty. I keep a big bowl of fruit, turning the kitchen into a Vermeer painting. Dark plums and rosy flat peaches
The phone rings a lot.
Sometimes I pick it up most times I can’t face a conversation. I think people understand.
Grieving is a funny old business.
Sera, in the homeopathic pharmacy gave me Cygnus Cygnus

Cygnus Cygnus is a homeopathic remedy made from the feathers of a whooper swan, used for deep, unresolved grief and emotional isolation.

I haven’t tried it yet preferring to calm myself with food.
Other people use alcohol, others use tobacco, some use antidepressants some use porn. Me, on the other hand, have turned to my life long companion of stodge.
Not any old food mostly carbs.
Particularly chips and bread,
I take myself to the Inn next door and order chips with mayo and tomato sauce. They’re big, hot chunky logs of crispy potato. I eat them hot, and I eat them alone.
I dont leave any. I enjoy the crispy bits that are left in the bowl.
I have toast.
For breakfast and at 3.00 a.m in the morning.
Slices of sourdough slathered in butter and Marmite, or jam. Last night I made real Welsh Rarebit with gruyere cheese and an egg. Under the grill so the toast burnt at the edges and the cheese melted perfectly.

Bread and chips are not ideal for a dialysis patient but at this moment in time I could careless.

I eat the comfort food alone.
I eat the comfort food until I feel comforted and then I stop.

I have no need for meat or fish. Have no need for company.
I have just my silence.

I walk to the end of the garden and sit in the sun., Walking back past the sage, thyme, the olive tree, paddling past the hellebores and roses. Pink, white, orange and yellow. The jasmine is growing under the honeysuckle. I walk past the nasturtiums which are billowing out of the plant pot.

On Saturday I put Radio 3 on. In the kitchen and in the sitting room. Very loudly. Our old cottage has no neighbours either side, one has moved and the others are away a lot. So I amped the music up high. Took a kitchen chair and sat in the sun by the nasturtiums. Like a Greek widow.
Two people were analysing Felix Mendelssohn’ third symphony.
The music weaving its way into the garden. A little cabbage white butterfly arrived. Flitting and dipping into the orange and yellow flowers. The Scottish Sympbony entered the busy section. Mendelssohn’s fast movement matched the butterfly who flapped its’ wings and flew in and out of the green papery leaves.
I swear the butterfly knew what it was doing.

Not many butterflies this year, but this single cabbage white strutted its stuff.

Years ago I went to San Diego on a retreat. The sun was hot and we retreaters met early in the morning. Standing around waiting a huge butterfly landed on my left shoulder.
‘Don’t move.’ said the lecturer.
‘It wants your salt.’
I stood ram ród straight and could feel the butterfly sucking on my shoulder.
My cabbage white didn’t land on me but danced instead

‘Butterflies are significant as symbols of transformation, change, and the soul across various cultures. They represent the beauty and fragility of nature, as well as the potential for personal growth and renewal.’
‘That’ll do me cocker’ as the Northern thespian used to say.

My neighbour has just delivered me a book of Donna Ashwoth poems. I dont know her but it seems she’s got ‘Loss’ cornered.
‘The stars Called you home.’ is one of her poems.
‘Melancholy’ another.

Cygnus Cygnus is for people who don’t want to reveal their grief, preferring to be alone with it. I’ve discovered I’m one them folks.
No need to talk, no need to discuss. Just sitting in the silence of being.
Who’d have thought I would be so contemplative.

‘The death of a swan, especially in a bonded pair, often leads to a period of mourning and potential changes in behavior for the surviving partner, including reduced feeding, searching for the lost mate, and, eventually, finding a new mate, while the deceased swan’s body undergoes natural decomposition processes.

I can’t imagine ever getting another mate the dawter would be less than pleased and I have no desire to fill the old git’s gap.

People keep gifting me things.
I’ve just been given a bar of dark chocolate with orange from the kids at The Deer Park caff.
Somebody has just delivered a fan to hold in front of my face.
I’ve been sent trousers from Saratoga and courgettes from down the hill.
I’ve received cards galore and well wishes from people who loved him.

I am surounded by his love.

The suns gone in and the dawters gone out.

Wimbledon has finished and I’m only interested in the English football games.

I’ll watch the news and ackowlegde that life goes on with or without the ancient mariner.

to quote Donna Ashworth

‘A HALF WITHOUT IT’S HALF NEEDS TO LEARN TO BREATH AGAIN.’

Made much easier with a chip butty methinks……