wings and things

Imagined conversation 24

on April 24, 2018

Me: Tomorrow it’ll be exactly eight months since you died.

Anthony: I notice you haven’t been talking to me as much lately.

Me: I know. Sorry, I’ve been busy – really busy.

Anthony: That’s good, Jules and no need to apologise.

Me: I’m not over you or anything like that but the grief seems to have eased up a bit.

Anthony: Don’t forget me though.

Me: That would be absolutely impossible. I live in your house.

Anthony: Our house.

Me: Okay, our house but actually, technically, it’s still just your house because we never got around to the whole joint ownership thing. Your estate is still being sorted and then it’ll actually be my house – so weird.

Anthony: Yes.

Me: Everything here reminds me of you.

Anthony: That’s as it should be.

Me: Ha! That ghastly pink enamel teapot that doesn’t match the red Aga … little things like that remind me of you.

Anthony: You’re not going to sell up are you?

Me: No, of course not. It would break your heart wouldn’t it?

Anthony: I have a slightly different perspective on that now.

Me: I guess I do too. This place stopped meaning as much to me when you went into the nursing home.

Anthony: And now?

Me: Well, nothing really means as much to me now. I put on those boots you gave me today – you know the long ones with black rubber feet and brown leather up to the knees? I wanted to come straight into the nursing home to show them off to you with my new jeans and jacket and then I felt a bit sick when I remembered. That hasn’t happened for awhile.

Anthony: So what did you do?

Me: I got dressed up anyway.

Anthony: That’s my Julie.

Me: I don’t think I should sell up. Ming loves it here.

Anthony: You don’t have to decide yet do you?

Me: No.

Anthony: You sound low.

Me: Not really – just getting used to this gentle grief. I kind of miss the searing grief; it’s more solid.

Anthony: Can’t help you there, Jules.

Me: Do you miss me?

Anthony: Yes, it’s kind of boring here without you.

Me: Same here.

Anthony: I think you are absolutely marvellous, Jules.

Me: Where did that come from?

Anthony: Straight from the heart.

Me: It’s so strange to love someone so much when the person is dead.

Anthony: Who’s that then?

Me: You, you idiot!

Anthony: But I’m still here.

Me: I know that but I just wish I knew where here was.

Anthony: Here is here.

Me: Okay – so you are here, and here is here. Thanks, Ants.

Anthony: You’re welcome. Oh, and Jules?

12233253_1036413786397336_1573540691_n 2

Me: Yes, Ants?

Anthony: You won’t get rid of that teapot will you?

Me: No way!

14 responses to “Imagined conversation 24

  1. susanpoozan says:

    Glad your grief has eased a little, keep the conversations coming though.

  2. Anonymous says:

    I love this photo. It is exactly how you draped yourself over Anthony on the arm of the easy chair day after day. Joined st the hip, as they say. You still are, somehow.

  3. I think there is comfort in these conversations for many, Julie.

  4. ksbeth says:

    what a sweet and wonderful conversation – such an incredible way to work through things now

  5. Colline says:

    It must be so hard for you Julie. I am glad to hear the grief is easing a little. Have a wonderful day in memory of your love.

  6. Such a gently melancholy yet hopeful conversation. Beautiful Julie. ❤

  7. glad to hear the grief isnt so raw and glad you could dress in those boots. take care

  8. Judy says:

    I just love these healing conversations. Wonderful, Julie. I am also uplifted to hear your grief has eased a little. Perhaps it transforms into something more bearable as the journey travels farther and farther.

  9. Ironic how the ghastly little teapot may end up being a prized possession. I was at a nature conservatory and saw a “ming” plant. Of course my thoughts went immediately to you and Ming. Best thoughts to you.

  10. tootlepedal says:

    Treasure that tea pot. Keep talking.

  11. Reading this made me cry, not sure why but it did

  12. Lynda says:

    Dear Julie,

    Your conversation today sounds so poignant. Healing from loss seems to take forever, and yet, we continue to heal though we think we never will.

    After so many years, little things still catch me unaware. I’ll think of things to tell my dad (gone 40 years), or see tulips in spring and suddenly miss Bob’s mother with all my heart (gone about 25). The difference now is that the memories of those I miss don’t hurt. They just make me smile for the love of them.



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