Good Grief 67

Right, where to start ...
It was Misty and Murky.
No sign of Pinky and Perky.
They had absconded. The blighters.
Last heard, they were being pursued ... trade descriptions and all that ...
... failing in their definitive duties, etc.
However, sneakily, sneakily, in spite of all the horrendous, tragic, unfolding sadness and poignancy of it all ... the damp, the sodden, the blur ... all held profound beauty. Every dead bracken frond had a glistening watery drip, poised and breathless. The autumn reds glowed more brightly somehow in the murk. And the beauty was a joy.
Once home and on the phone in the kitchen I listened to my sister's anxiety, grief and exhaustion as she was driving back home. She said she was just back and could see her husband, her daughter and her boyfriend inside waiting for her for dinner and a glass of wine after this difficult day. As I spoke I noticed my husband's copy of J.G. Ballard's 'The Miracle of Life' on the shelf and then looked at the tin where his ashes lay (his old paintbrush box with a picture of him that I took when we visited Van Gogh's Hospital at Arles).
I so miss his substance.