Kitchen

I was warming up with my back to the open oven whilst heating my soup for lunch and looking at the remaining stuff to be sorted, gradually whittled down now and stuffed in the corner so I can now walk through without stepping over everything. With a clear floor I found myself looking at the books and missing all the chat, wondering what it would have been like to have had this time together working from home. I was often anxious when I went to work, leaving him unwell for the whole day on his own.
I hadn’t felt up to talking to my uncle in the midst of all this but rang him tonight to see how he was getting on. He talked about going to get a fresh shirt to wear and realising that it would have last been ironed by my aunt and couldn’t bring himself to put it on.
The long journeys and heft of objects.