It's not winter now but a thundery summer. We've just had a wild and wonderful storm. Now it has settled down to the steady, soaking rain the ground has been needing. I went out to my writing spot at the back and found my table awash from the storm. I could have towelled it off, but if the wind were to rise again, I'd be in the same position
I threw away the weather-worn chair we had here at the front door, in the recent hard rubbish collection. I've missed it for dumping shopping bags on while opening the door. (Its mate still does duty in my backyard writing spot.) I bought a low deck-chair to replace it, at the same time that I bought two straight folding chairs for the market. The low deck chair doesn't work here; not comfortable for reading or writing, and too low for the shopping. But one of the market chairs does just fine. It's a bit different from the other, very comfortable and supportive but on the heavy side. I want market gear that's light to carry. So this is now my front door chair. The other writing chair and the other one I bought can come to market with me. So can the deck chair. It's useful to have an extra if a client brings a friend.
The rain doesn't come in here, under the roof that juts out over the front stairs. The temperature is mild, and the view here is nearly as pretty and peaceful as the one in my back garden. Some people would think it prettier. I overlook the street, which is full of trees that largely obscure the houses. And behind the houses opposite, on the low side of the street, are the tops of the mountains. (Today they are sometimes invisible behind clouds.)
Bit by bit this place becomes right for my needs. I could have sat here on the old chair if Andrew was still alive, but I probably would have wondered if I was preventing him from doing so. Or he would have been watching TV just inside the door, and I wouldn't have had this peace. I certainly would not have had this more comfortable chair, nor this iPad!
Yes, I would swap all that to get him back — but back in health and clarity. More and more I understand that he could not have gone on. The deterioration was continuing and escalating, no matter how we tried to keep it at bay. His quality of life would have been rat-shit had he lingered; more and more so. And so I have my bouts of fierce sobs, and also my increasing pleasure in my home and my solitude.