I heard a crash from above and a cry of ‘Oh, no’. It was one of the glass tumblers she had given me in celebration of my first marriage. There were six originally now there are just two left. They are all the tangible things I have from her. Two glasses. I like them very much. They are square, art deco in form, simple and elegant. She had a very particular style – set somewhere between the 40s and the 70s. In the 40s she would’ve been in her twenties and in her fifties in the 70s. She liked colour but not too much pattern. I remember her pride over some silk cushion covers she’d bought for her sofa. They were of orange and pink and they looked so striking together. She had an artist’s eye, I think. I miss her. She was a difficult woman, a demanding one, as all the women of the family were, but I loved her. But in the end they are just things, and another part of me just wants to shrug them all off. She gave me a less entrancing gift while I was living out there. They were a set of fake candles that you charge up and they remain flickering for up to 6 hours. She was delighted with them, had a set herself. You save on matches, she said, and all the fuss of candles. Catholic churches use the same kind of thing now. But they are not the same. Candle flames are alive, they smell, they flicker. I gave them away but I wish now I hadn’t. Perhaps I can buy another set. So practical. She wasn’t naturally so, but when she was she was pleased. My love. My lovely love.
What a delight a fishing boat just getting ready to set out when I walked into the harbour. I tried to work out what it was that delighted me so. The lights perhaps? Like Christmas lights. Or the sound of the fishermen talking so softly in the fast-coming dawn. Or the sense of normality it suggests. Or the gorgeous slow entry into the open sea and the gentle bobbing of the boat. I watched it sail off into the distant horizon a part of me wanting, nay longing to be with them. All is well. See, all is well.