A strange thing happened tonight, I was going through DH's files looking for the right poem for the reading at his funeral, he'd written hundreds and my eyes were starting to feel a bit raw. I noticed the last change to the document was on the 4th of August. At the same time MCat sat bolt upright and just stared. Then I looked up at the ceiling and there was one of those bright green grass hoppers, you know, the ones with the really long legs. I have mesh on my upstairs windows to stop my cats falling out, so fuck knows how it could have got in.
Parents are still being horrible (I actually have an old thread called "horrible parents") My father rang me today to have another go at me. He said they wouldn't be coming to the funeral because I hadn't visited them enough. My mother insinuated DH's death was my fault, and if we'd visited more, he may not have killed himself. She actually told him about a gyno exam the first time she met him! How cringe making is that? Your 70 year old mother talking about her vadge to my little hubby, oh, and the bloke over the road who kept trying to kiss her. I'd find it funny if they weren't my parents.
He didn't even leave a note, so that's another reason I've been going through all his poems he wrote, looking for some kind of clue. He was such a gentle little soul and I don't know why he wouldn;t let me help him. I used to love kissing the back of his neck, I had to stand on tiptoes to do it. He was tall and skinny with beautiful curly hair. One day I jokingly said I don't think I could ever be attracted to a baldy man, and he got paranoid about losing his hair. I'm going to snip a lock off to keep when I go to see him. The funeral people said he needed to be made presentable. I know why, when somebody hangs themselves it ain't pretty. I just hope they don't cake him in make up. I bought him an amazing duffle coat one xmas, and he looked like a bloke in a black and white french film. He wasn't conventially handsome, but I loved to look at his face. He fell asleep on a flight once, and that's how I kept myself occupied, staring at the beautiful contours of his profile. I;ve never been more fascinated with anyone's face.
He used to give the best presents ever. Book of Sylvia Plath poems, random books he thought I might like. Panda teddy, because he knew I'd had one as a child. He was fucking awesome, the only person when I thought about losing them it made my blood run cold. If you have a Dear Other, give them an extra kiss, squeeze on the arse, stroke on the hand.