He appreciated his days--even the smallest things--a good cup of tea, a rabbit hopping up a hill, the sound of rain on our roof, a chance encounter with an old friend on the High Street.
He didn't waste time on unimportant things--holding grudges, for instance, even against those who had done him great harm. Minor irritations, like traffic. He once phoned me from the motorway, on his way to London, having been stuck in traffic for two hours. His concern was not with himself, but with the persons who had probably been injured in an accident. He had more patience than anyone I have ever known.
I have made him a little shrine, in the bedroom, with our picture above it, and it is a comfort to me, this cardboard barrel of bones and ash. It is what I have left of the body I loved.