27. And there he was, gone.

And there he was, gone – as my Grandfather used to say.

Today, he left to go on his walk bright and early – well, not bright as it was still dark. But most definitely early. Before I was up. Before I’d even known he’d gone before I had. It feels most strange. And not in a good way. But there you are.

I shouldn’t be surprised really. No matter what the order of first out the door I would be upset. I imagine he is too. So this way he gets to not have to deal with it. He has, after all, got his own shit going on. Would I have left extra early? Probably. It’s not like either of us have been sleeping well so you might as well be off as lie about waiting to start you life over.

So now it’s my turn to do that. Open other doors now that some of them have closed. Look to the future and what lies ahead.

But first I have to get through this morning. Because, quite frankly, it’s a hard one.

A dog walk in the company of a good friend is a wonderful thing. Walking, generally, is a good thing. You never come back from a walk regretting that you went, no matter how wet and windy the day. So that helped.

A coffee with his dad, who through all this has been a source of sadness and support. ( I think of all the hearts that have been broken that his is the hardest to bare. ) We get on well and revert to conversations on practical issues of jobs that need doing. Not such a bad thing to do.

And then on to some packing. I’ve filled 4 big bags with a fair share of pots, pans, china, cutlery. I’ve divided up the wooden spoons, potato peelers, ladles and bottle openers. All the double bedding from the spare room and his much loved slow cooker. The daughter sorted tupperware and cookbooks while I piled his chess set and boxing books. Years of accumulation all shifted in a busy hour.

So I’ve done a bit to help. And that will do. The rest is his to manage and box.

And the rest of the rest is mine to rebuild.