What happens after...

... for Knots in the String.

We walked in the cold night air, our breath huffing out in white clouds, the Pupsicle trotting along in his own little world of night smells. We could hear the waves slapping on the sand, and above us the moon drifted, fresh from an exciting night before of blue moons and little moons, but now half masked by cloud.

(My husband took this one the night before - love how the stars are visible and the two lighthouse flashes at Black Point and Rabbit island are visible, along with the flaming white light of what we think might have been a squid boat.)

I rolled along the track in so many layers, the Michelin Man sprang to mind. T-shirt, then a polar fleece zip top, followed by a polar fleece vest, then a puffa jacket. Oh, and thick leggings, a beanie, a pair of gloves, woollen socks and sneakers. Perhaps the sheepskin-lined boots will be worn if winter progresses to a polar chill (which seems unlikely now).

Most often, we talk as we walk. It’s a favourite time of the day/night as we touch base on so many subjects. A mellow time, winding down to cup of tea and bed. Imagine my shock then when my husband said to me: ‘How do you think you would live if I wasn’t here anymore.’ My response was quite swift, despite that I knew he meant dead, not separation. It’s something I dare say we all think about as we move further into the winter of our lives. I replied, ‘What I do when I’m on my own now – no difference.’

But of course the difference is huge in any partnership. The ‘we’ becomes ‘I’ or in our case – ‘the dog and I’, because as I returned the question, we both knew that the Fates willing, our little dog, not yet two, would be with one of us for many years. And that, in my case, would be the saving grace. When I hear my husband chatting away to the pup, I think it would be his as well.

The odd thing is that earlier in the day, I’d been writing Annie’s latest chapter in Phoebe’s Prime. And I knew that when she and Phoebe had coffee the next day, the subject would arise – that the experience of both lone women would be compared and contrasted. With Phoebe, would she feel what Annie felt at being alone?

(I asked AI to ‘create’ Phoebe for me. TBH, this is pretty perfect. Scary, isn’t it?)

My contemporary fictions deal with phases of life, with grief, adjustment and how that’s reflected onto the protagonists by the lives of others around them, and vice versa. Often, I find the research is rather handy in viewing one’s own life. Even so, later my husband’s question really did make me reflect.

My husband and I have always been happy to have a life together, it makes us feel comfortable, complete. We rarely look outside for entertainment – perhaps it’s why the marriage has been so successful for fifty years. There’s been no ‘I’. Only ever ‘we’. But ‘alone’ is a whole other thing. There will be emotional emptiness after so long and life will change as one of us tries to build meaningful social existence into the void.

I was very glad when the pup offered up a ‘toot’, an ‘airbiscuit’, a ‘bottom burp’ or more properly ‘passed wind’ as he walked along. It was quite loud in the winter night and broke the seriousness of the moment. We both burst out laughing as he lifted his little dog’s face and grinned at us. Time for talking about ‘what happens after…’ another day. Or night.

Or maybe not at all…

Other Things:

*Rising count of dog damage: Daughter-in-law’s thongs (alias flip flops). Various legs of chairs and tables both inside and out, watering system spikes, husband’s beautifully handmade, softest leather and very posh slippers, my journal, my journal again, my Lamy fountain pen, and then a printed receipt which I needed this week, and various Liberty hankies which he does give back for a treat. All this despite chew toys and walks and whatever else young dogs need. I’m very miffed about the Lamy fountain pen because I’m once again handwriting my novels and it makes such a difference to my process. In addition, I’m now handwriting letters, and my handwriting has improved considerably. Naughty dog!!!

Yet more rain on top of last week’s. Pupsicle begins less than impressed but shakes himself off and acts like the tough Jack Russell he’s supposed to be. I am now ready for some fine days so that I can swim and walk, and smile without gritted teeth, even though I wanted the rain. Remember, Prue, be careful what you wish for.

*Grandson, despite being in Grade 2 is now elevated to Grade 3/4 maths. Our little genius…

*Still reading Devorgilla Days and don’t want it to finish it because I love being lost in Kathleen’s memoir. I find her words on wild-water swimming exactly mirror my own. That when one needs to heal, the ocean is the place. Whether it’s physical or psychological healing, the effect can be profound. I also recommend Kathleen’s post today - volunteering has never sounded so good!

I Found Cashmere, Cake and Conversation at the Community Shop (Why Volunteering is Good for the Soul)

*Watching back-series of Restoration Australia on ABC i-View. Wonderful series and charmed by the efforts of so many to save old historic buildings. Effectively perpetuating the skills of great craftsmen as well. We always enjoyed the early days of The Restoration Man from the UK, with the lovely voice of George Clarke – this is similar.

Nephew and wife’s beautiful restoration at GunBower gets a mention in Country Style magazine. The Travelling Bishop is a former chapel and now an Air B’n B and if one is in the Campaspe shire, I can recommend it.

Made chutney from the last of our pears and quinces. Cardamom, mixed spices, ginger and so on.

Very yummy and with the pup between us as we worked. So sweet – maybe I’m not angry with him anymore…

*Ballet. OMG! Tired and sore. My balance is subsequently bad. Brain tiredness works against balance and vestibular alignment. I have to say, I don’t feel like this after a beach run. Ah, ‘nuff said. Need a swim!

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And so, I reflect on my husband’s question and think the answer I would truthfully give is that one can’t pre-empt how one would act. Such a cataclysmic event would affect every person differently. They would then grieve so differently. Like life, living and laughter, every person does it in their own individual way.

I suspect mine would involve swimming. In fact I’m positive. It’s the only way I keep myself afloat…

Music for this week? Of course…