As the days lengthen, sticky budded trees reach out to me like the chubby arms of a toddler. My anger and sorrow have burnt out like an autumn bonfire and I wander in the garden, scorched, thin as ash. I sit on the grass next to the bird table sinking my hands into the warm soil.
I rub a sprig of rosemary between my fingers. the smell is crisp and antiseptic. I never liked. It makes me think of you though, out in the garden in a wide brimmed hat, the straw unravelling where the puppy had sharpened its teeth on it.
The summer is over now, fading gently into autumn. The mornings are gauzy and damp, purple asters glowing gently in the low light. I deadhead the roses, wielding secateurs like a clumsy surgeon. This was always your job.
Today I go swimming, slipping into the river where no one can see me. The cold water is electric on my skin, every stroke sends up droplets that spark blue in the dawn light. Velvet eyed cows watch me from the bank, and the air is embroidered with birdsong. I imagine your long, languid stride through the wet grass, then let the water carry me on.
Karen Arnold is a writer and child psychotherapist. She came to writing later in life, but is busy making up for lost time. She is fascinated by the way we use narratives and storytelling to make sense of our human experience.
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