Memory, like a summers' day with fluffy clouds obscuring random detail. A dizziness that accepts an arm to walk by. An angiogram strongly suggesting a touch of bypass and, maybe, some automated help with rhythmic security too. Hardly a compensation to have a bed by the sunny Southerly window.
With life however, hope. Already there are plans for long distance electric buggy trips into town (the driving license will likely be on six months furlough). My father remains a man of dignity and ambition. Always careful to pay his way and be independent, he accepts pocket money from me to buy his newspapers for the first time (So it seems to me).
My sister has a turn in the distraction seat today, no doubt hearing the same stories I heard yesterday. I have returned home, to younger family.
A beautiful Sunday. Warm in the sun, the slightest of showers thrown in just for form. The morning I spend filing ancient paperwork until lunch time, when I am distracted by the number of birds feeding on the lawn. Blackbirds, starlings, sparrows and dunnocks, pidgeons and, washing thoroughly in the bird-bath, a young robin - probably hatched in secret next to our conservatory and then fed under the right-hand border shrubs a couple of weeks ago. Short of tail and long on the speckles, some time yet from the salmon pink first breast feather that will mark coming maturity.
The birds on the lawn keep vanishing in the sward reminding me it is time to cut, the second cut of the year and, after four weeks (or so), I take 9 boxes of heavy wet grass off. The sod is wet underfoot, just past the stage of holding prints, but the dirt borders are too wet to stand on; weeds can only be pulled from firm-standing, the backs will have to wait.
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