I miss you, you know. Not everyday. Not all the time. But often enough.
It’s daft things that make me think of you.
Walking past front gardens and looking at the flowers – you’d always slow down to look at a pretty garden, and getting you to slow down once you’d got going was no mean feat.
Eating polos. The girl has just discovered a love of them and every time I pick up a packet I think of you.
It’s bittersweet. Something pretty or tasty that brings me joy, but also sadness that you’re not still here – to talk about the flowers with, or offer me a polo.
You used to tell me off for wearing my sleeve cuffs down past my wrists. It made me look scruffy, you said. Like little Orphan Annie. And you absolutely hated it when they were so scruffy that they had holes which I could (and did) put my thumbs through.
I bought a long sleeved top for running (and you’d have had quite a lot to say on the futility of running I suspect. Why would I bother when there’s such a good bus service around here?). When I put it on this evening I discovered it has holes in the cuffs to put my thumbs through. Thumb holes – deliberately put there. You would have had a field day and I had a little chuckle to myself about that. But it made me sad that I didn’t get to hear exactly what you had to say on the matter (even though I can have a pretty good guess).