Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message ‘He is Dead’.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
Reading. Always a book nearby.
Sitting on the floor at her knee, weeping. Her gentle presence neither encouraging nor judging the tears, but just being there with me.
Driving to the next state over, to help the son move house.
Book recommendations, including Martin Sloane (which made her literally chuck it at the wall after the last page, exactly like I had done when I read it).
Redecorating, all in green.
A visit to the far-west suburbs to buy a couple of gifts - I particularly remember picking out earrings - before my trip to Dallas to Meet a Man.
Medical appointments. Surgeries. Recovery. Pain. Perseverance. Faith. Strength. Selflessness. Fortitude.
Review journals, paperclips, and endless notes of books to buy.
Practically pinning her to the chair to watch The Princess Bride for the first time. She was so reluctant to watch a movie she thought would be dumb, but ended up loving.
Driving around in the evening (turning to late night), talking ourselves hoarse, laughing a lot and crying a little. Nearly running out of gas until I finally limped into a lit (but unmanned) station, thank goodness for pay-at-the-pump.
The trip of a lifetime, to the left coast, for a wedding.
Not "long-suffering." Not "always positive." Not "uncomplaining." A real, whole, full, flawed, feeling person.
Pizza delivery. Stuffed green peppers. Chicken-on-a-Plate.
Phone calls.
Texts.
Late-night talks.
The kitties.
Hair-twirling snarkiness that would shock almost anyone else (who could believe such a thing of the saintly Fluffy?)
Homemade sloppy joes, every time I moved house (and there were so many moves!), because she "couldn't really help."
Cards and letters in the most beautiful (and distinctive) handwriting.
Scones, tea. Quiet Sunday mornings.
Sympathy. Empathy. Grace. Friendship. Love.
[the title quotation is by Keith Urban, from "Days Go By"]
