I've fallen out of love with the garden apartment. Maybe it's just because while I was waiting for David to fill out the paperwork, staring out at the massive overgrown garden and dreaming of our new life living there and all the chaos and reorganization it would take, David's great uncle, a priest, was dying in his sleep.
An afternoon nap, after lunch, with visitors on the way. What a way to go, right?
I keep wishing for it all to be a mistake. make it untrue.make it untrue. I did too little, I cared too little. This sweet old man showered me with kisses and hugs and probably liked me most out of everyone I've met in France. I meant to find him a proper sweater and some nice warm soft socks and a new blanket for his easy chair where he spent a lot of time. I never did it. And now I can't. I felt the same guilt when my grandmother died, and my other grandmother before her, and my dad before that.
I still remember the last time I saw my dad. He was parked at the end of our street, probably hoping to catch us on our way to school. But I had kept my friends dad waiting (again) as I rushed out of the house, and I couldn't open my mouth to say "Stop". That's my dad there. The one my mom kicked out of the house. The one who didn't call me on my birthday. The one I haven't seen since last summer. The one who left our allowance and notes in the tiny garden he and I made in the backyard where he knew I would find them. He stopped by. Just not when we were in.
David doesn't like funerals, so I don't know if he is going to go. I can get there myself, it's only an hour by train. But from my experience I know that it helps. It forces you to realize that it's true.