It is now more than a year ago since my friend Barbara passed away. She was a major part in my life for more than fifteen years, and I am slowly coming to terms with her absence. The house is full of memories of her, and I sometimes think I still see her - in my mind. Sitting in her chair in the corner, where she would watch TV, or watch the workmen over at Goat Island building the marina during 2019. Each night, at half past eleven, the telly would go off and she would rise from her seat to proceed upstairs. Watched by her relative, the cat, and myself, she made it every day - until September last year.
The cat still misses her, and whenever he comes in, he hangs a left into the sitting room to check that she has not by chance returned after all. After she died, I showed him her remains. But she did not move, nor did she make a sound - so it did not register with him. A cat is hardwired for movement, and there was none. He probably did discern a smell, and I won't forget that sad look on his face as he sat under the head-end of the coffin.
I miss her friendship, gentle encouragement and genuine delight at my presence. I'll go on.
