I love Sundays. I particularly the lazy ones, and that’s how yesterday began—after, of course, a long and lovely trail walk with Her Highness. Once back, I got incredibly cozy on the chaise long by the fire, looking up every once in a while to see the light snow flocking the leaves of my Rhododendron.
Around noon, the sun came out and it was exhilarating. Then the phone rang.
It was Patsy calling to tell me our mutual friend, my dear, dear friend Cathy, who’s often been my companion on adventures described on this blog, had a massive and inoperable brain aneurism whilst on vacation in Spain.
I re-read her emails from the past few weeks of her trip, gutted by the news. I had imaginary conversations with her all afternoon, and with her son, Luke. She was with Luke when she was struck; they’d just watched a movie over pizza at Luke’s apartment in Valencia. She was where she loved to be and with the greatest love of her life.
I heard from Luke this morning. He’s, of course, by her side and he’ll be there through until the end. My dear Cathy is not going to survive.
I can’t stop thinking about her. My brain keeps offering up mementos: Images of us having lunch at Banana Leaf, her shocking pink ski jacket bouncing up Davie Street, the sound of her laugh, the sound of her laugh, the sound of her laughter …
I can’t go near Sheba. If I touch her, I start sobbing.
But life will go on. My colleagues will come this morning for another meeting about our Selfie show, and I’ll get my car back again at the end of the day.
There are a couple of millimeters of snow on the ground, its -4° this morning and more light snow is predicted for today. But there’s no wind and not enough snow to cause power disruptions.
I ordered a roll of plastic with which to line my raised beds, but today gardening seems so far away. Winter is upon me and I’m only about Cathy today.