60. I was supposed to know where we were going. 

It’s strange how something suddenly pops up and you realise what was happening at some point in the path. Usually something you hadn’t thought about. Not even something particularly relevant. Just something a time ago. And then you’re faced with the gap between then and now.

This is by way of trying – and subsequently failing – to sit down and tackle my tax return. The deadline is looming heavily. I’m surrounded by paperwork and records of jobs I’d forgotten and paint choices I remember – I may not always be able to put a name to a face, but I can always remember a colour scheme!

I leaf through my diary for additional reminders of the things I need to include so nothing slips through the net. And suddenly, in the pages, there’s a shout of Rome! and I’d forgotten we’d been. A big (his) family gathering for a birthday which was quite fun but glad we were not staying too close to them all. It was sunny, we were really lucky with the weather with the exception of a family trip to tour the Colosseum where we were soaked by impressively Biblical rain. It was a long weekend where we walked miles (always the best way to explore) and miles. And the sad, overriding memory is that I was supposed to know where we were going. 

I often didn’t care, was happy to have a bit of a guess, use Google-maps where needed, mooch. I knew we’d get there – I know I’ve got a good sense of direction and I could always find the metro. But If you’re that bothered about getting somewhere, why not plan the trip yourself?

I’m often a ‘last-minute’ type. I hate planning. Find no joy in it. I love the accidental happenings of taking a slightly different way, of looking at a map rather than being told where to go. But one of the phrases I remember hearing over this weekend, and so often after it, is “Are you sure?”

No. No, I’m not sure. I wasn’t sure. I just thought so. Why did I need to be sure? Why wasn’t he sure? But is was said so often. About everything and anything. If I started a sentence with “I think…” I’d still get asked. But what did it matter? Because it was just what I thought, or what made sense to me. But the question kept popping up everywhere. When looking for something, going somewhere, answering something. If I gave an opinion, if I had an idea. Are you sure?

I’m sure now.

I’m sure that, hard as it was, that it was right to part, to not settle for someone else who wasn’t ever sure. Because all the time I was supposed to be certain he never was. And I’m glad I didn’t ask, and I’m even more glad I didn’t keep wanting to know. One hundred percent is an awfully high call. Is he sure now? I never needed the answer. I still don’t. It’s a question he’s going to have to ask himself instead.

And it gets really annoying.