Sometimes, I feel like an interloper, a thief, like I swooped in and overtook my husband’s place in the world, a world that was so much richer with him in it. I can’t begin to fill this space, in the way that he did. Everyone knew him, in the village, it seemed. He couldn’t walk down the high street or get through the queue at the shops without running into a host of acquaintances and friends. A half hour trip often turned into an hour or more, as people stopped and engaged him in conversation. He was well known, and well loved. His presence here was broad and expansive.
One day, I will hang my own art in the living room, take up the carpet, paint the walls. But not yet. This place still carries his spirit, and I want to hang onto it as long as I can.