I think I'll never feel better. But I do. I always do. It still doesn't make this bereft feeling easier. The sight of a broken crayon, the top of a texta as I move the mop back and forth, back and forth on the verandah. The cicadas seem to mimic my stomach. All settles and then heaves again. I enjoy listening to them. But not today.
The boxes of toys have been placed just inside the door waiting to be sorted into something I have no heart for. Order. No I much prefer disorder and the sound of children's voices.
Reluctant Memsahib, bless her, has put a positive slant on the awful leavings that go along with holidays. I shall away and open the scent bottle. But not today. Maybe tomorrow.
"But you can distill the memories as metaphorical fragrance to dab upon wrists when nostalgia and solitude threaten to overwhelm."
