Afterwards I counted the days for days on end:
Each day at three another trapdoor opened unto yet another plane of time that made the world look strange. The waving birch trees’ greeting insincere, the sun itself a mixed blessing, making light of milky leaves but pressing hard against the window pane.
I came as far as fifty-six or so and then lost count.
Each week you called with clockwork steadiness:
Speaking of tomato salad and mozzarella cheese, filling the air with clatter chatter the purpose of which did not reveal itself just then. I looked out into the patio, counting flower stems or else drops of rain careering down the pane. The pushbikes needed mending.
I came as far as fifty-six or so and then lost count.
Nobody sane would volunteer to come here:
The cold, the rain, the heavy weather. My learning Spanish seemed more natural to you. Shoes and all we pushed you in the pool one day and in your soaking shirt you were as happy as a fish. Always the ladies’ man you had a knack for the southern climate.
I came as far as fifty-six or so and then lost count.
The day of your burial was glorious:
Beautiful late April light but I was cold and longed for rain. Recently remarried, she looked lost in her black dress. The heart-shaped wreath she brought somewhat out of line with our more sombre ones. You weren’t stuck for flowers but the stone did not arrive for weeks:
You came as far as fifty-six, and then lost count.