In the end I had plenty of time. My dad lived for another week before pneumonia (what was once called the old man's friend) stole him away from us. He had said everything, we had said everything, there was nothing left to say. We began repeating ourselves. I watched as various family members arrived still hoping and then struggled to accept what we already knew was to be the only inevitable outcome.
|Alexander Carson 1923 - 2017|
We deliberately planned a wee while before the funeral in order to accommodate our diverse family scattered across the globe to gather themselves together for, probably, one last time. There are not many of the old ones left, of his generation he was the last.
There are memories of my childhood, tattie soup with the boiled beef eaten later for tea with bread and butter.
There are people who know me, people I have forgotten. There are family stories, some we all know and still we laugh as if this is the first time we had heard them. There are revelations that are new and old questions find answers. It's mentally and emotionally exhausting.
I am sat here watching a bleak and cold Scottish spring come to bloom while my finca throws up its annual show to temperatures in the 20'sC without me. Steve sends me photos of the Broom in blossom, I have only to close my eyes to smell it's coconutty scent. Of the vegetable garden newly planted with this year's choices. Our alfresco lunches in embryo set in neat rows and I ache to be home.
Next week this will pass into our family history and we will pick up the pieces of our lives and move on. Right now I can't imagine where I would rather be than in Spain on my finca with the flowers and the insects and the animals and where all will be well.