Just a few words...

   ...on 'Plan A' day, when working-from-home advice, mandatory mask-wearing and Covid passes are all dropped in the UK... and we're told we need to start 'learning to live' again.

(Image: my own; names changed)        

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            My next-door neighbour buried her husband today.  The funeral was at 9.30 am.

            In the nine years that I've lived here, I've always been friendly with them.  Neighbourly, anyway.  My age, my generation.  We passed the time of day.  Tom and Jill.  They took in parcels for me, and I for them.  We exchanged Christmas cards.  They always checked with me first if they were going to have work done to the house - painting, roof repairs, etc.  Did I mind scaffolding going up, workmen making noise, the mess it might make?  They'd spent a lot of money on the house over the years.  It's the best and smartest-looking in our short terrace.  They were proud of it.  When the downstairs curtains are open, you can see one of those shiny silver ornament signs on a shelf unit by the window, glinting in the sunlight: HOME.

            He was a self-employed taxi driver.  He did the airport runs, and advertised on social media.  He was always busy - until lockdown, at least.  But she was a key worker, so kept working.  They were okay.

            The last time I saw them together was on January 1st.  They were off out for a walk along the seafront.  They both looked well, as always.  He was a big chap - tall and stocky.  Fit-looking.  He had a smart bomber jacket on, and a flat cap pulled down over his grey crop.  I called out 'Happy New Year' and they returned it.  Then they strode off, arm in arm, towards the beach.  I remember thinking at the time how happy they looked.  I couldn't help reflecting on my own marriage, which had only lasted five short years.  This February would have seen our 22nd anniversary.  It made me think about my ex-wife: where she was now.  What she was doing.  How she was keeping.  I wondered how it was that we couldn't be as happy in our marriage as my neighbours seemed in theirs.  As always, I heaped blame on myself - even though, as they say, it takes two.

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            On January 2nd - as I found out only last week - Tom and Jill both tested positive for Covid and went into self-isolation.  They were both fully-jabbed so they weren't unduly worried - though he had an underlying lung condition.  You would never have guessed, though, to see him.  Anyway, everything seemed okay.  The next day, January 3rd, was his 63rd birthday.  During the day, he developed shortness of breath, so they called out a respiratory nurse, who advised hospital as a precaution.  So, he went into hospital.

            His condition suddenly deteriorated.  Overnight, she got a call and raced to the hospital.  She was there with him, holding his hand, when he died shortly afterwards.

            Today, he was buried, and she is alone - a widow at 60, after 42 years of marriage.  On the way home this morning, I noticed their downstairs curtains wide open.  The shelf unit beside their window - the same one with the HOME ornament -  was a mass of sympathy cards.  Interspersed among them were his birthday cards.  I noticed the large wording on one of them: HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DAD.

            After the funeral, the hearse brought her home and conveyed all of the wreaths and flowers indoors for her.  A bloom fell from one of the bouquets and landed on the pavement.  It lies there still.  An ox-eye daisy, I think - though I can't see the eye.  For some reason, seeing it made me incredibly sad.  Often, it's those small things.  I wanted to go down and pick it up - normally I would with a dropped bloom whenever I see one.  But I left it. I don't know why, but I did.

            They were looking forward to their retirement together.  I have no idea what she'll do, but at least she has family and friends.  That's a blessing.  Her dreams in pieces, she'll now have to learn to live alone.

            She'll now have to learn to live again.