Declutter my memories

I’m still not convinced this is over.
I have to write to the solicitor still, I’ve been putting that off.

I miss your house.

The photo of Bob is still there. It’s bigger than I remember.

The funeral was horrible. E did exactly what my family were expecting but it didn’t make it any easier to witness. Initially, I was angry by his behaviour but by the next day, I was already back in London and pitying the character he is. That he makes himself feel big by putting others down is pathetic enough, to see a funeral as an opportunity to do that was something beyond shameful. I pity his wife even more though, she’s lovely- I can’t for the life of me understand why she ever went near him. His daughter seems to have avoided his genes too.

I hope that most of the people there are aware of his tendencies.
I worry about my Dads childhood.
I’m paranoid that the necklace I’ve doubled around my wrist will break and I’ll lose it forever.

It was good to see J/B again. We stopped at his house on the way south, met his dogs- Freya and Deefa. Energetic things. It’s a shame it takes a death for that to happen.

The doctor at the hospital is being less than forthcoming with his signature. The coroners office called, to ask if the cause of death was acceptable enough for the certificate to be signed. What would they have done if the response had been negative… changed the cause of death??? The doctor refused to do it earlier in the week, and now we’re waiting for this to be sent to them and them to check something and send it to those people and blah blah blah.

Pneumonia due to frailty.
Type 2 diabetes.
Heart issues.
Broken shoulder.
Broken knee.
Anti-psychotic drugs.
The aliens from Bethlehem.
Your spectacles were never stolen.

I love your handwriting.
I didn’t realise how much it deteriorated as you got older.

Did you post those to me when I was living in the ‘deen? Or did Dad send them?

I put it on my wall with masking tape. Next to my desk. I liked it a lot. It was near a picture of my brother, and a blue plastic star. You’d put a lot of thought into it. It was lovely.

I’m avoiding situations where people might ask. I don’t know how I would handle the answer.

I can’t remember what I was like when J died. I can’t remember anything from that time, apart from giving all my money and belongings away and smoking and drinking a lot.

I’ve just found some cards she sent me over the years; birthdays and Christmases. The one from that particular Christmas is lovely, I hope I appreciated it at the time. I have at least a week before I can properly deal with this- 48 hours difference has delayed everything. Everyone is in limbo until tomorrow afternoon.

Every Christmas, a five pound note.

There are so many memories I’m desperately hanging on to this week. I’m traveling north in a few days, staying in a house I’ve only spent a handful of nights in in the past. I remember details of it well, especially from when I was very small and I shared a room there with my brother. The rug between the beds. I would curl my toes into it. The Etch-a-Sketch we would fight over.

The photos you have, of so many people I’ve never met. The one on top of the fire in that bedroom, and the poem beside it. I was in your house not long after J died, I read that and felt a sudden affinity with you.

Trinkets from Norway, stories about Betty and Hans-Otto and cycling around the fjords.

You were your own worst enemy at times. I know where I get it from.

We ate Christmas dinner and I was totally exhausted. You ate slowly, but you did eat.

“What can I eat to gain weight, because I’m only seven stone now? I’ve never been more or less than eight stone since 1945.”
“Well, you probably don’t have regular meals, do you? Do you have regular meals Mam?”
“Well I like chicken, and I like fish… and I like salmon.”

We were cleaning at every chance we got. I scrubbed the cupboard doors while my Dad cooked and you sat in the living room.

I remember your cat. Peeko.
B and I had played in the garden when it was sunny.

We had helped move her bed. She was sleeping in the boxroom now, with two mattresses on top of one another- Princess and the Pea style. She sat on the bed, slippered feet hanging- pointed towards each other, not touching the floor. Dad was standing closer to her and I stood in the doorway, leaning on the frame- I could just see you around the edge of the door. I remember thinking how small and frail she looked, and how I’d probably remember thinking that when this happened.

“What’s in the sandwich?”
“Ham and tomato.”
“Who?”

We took you to Dobbies. It wasn’t cold, but it was windy and I stood with you by the entrance as Dad parked the car. You were holding my arm. I can’t remember what we bought for you.

I hope you weren’t alone.

“But the Camera Club is over until September.”
“The Camera Club is over until September? When does the Camera Club start again?”
“March.”

2 out of 5.
And 23 of each.

I forget your birthday.
Every year I forget it. A week or so later it dawns on me what the date is and my heart sinks.
For a while I couldn’t even remember what date it was.
Sometimes I’m still not sure.
I’m not too sure what date that is either. Not that it’s worth remembering really.

December I think, means more to me.
I was cooking potatoes when you called.
I was sitting on top of a refrigerator.
We drank a lot but stayed sober.
Or I definitely did.
Did I miss my train the next day?
You wrote me a letter.

I started smoking to remind myself of you.
You had even quit while you were away. When did I find that out? Was it at the funeral or before?