January 21st 2022
It’s another new year without Felix. The weather for the last few weeks has been relentlessly wet, damp and dreary. But in the last few days it’s snapped out of it. We have had sun and ice. This morning, as I leave the house, I find thick frost both outside and inside the car.
At the Green Hill, the sun is starting to appear behind the hills to the south east. With my monthly visits, I notice its position move every month. As I stand behind Felix’s grave looking down to the river, it is rising to my right. For the last few months, it’s shifted a bit more to the right every month. At some point in the coming year, it will start appearing to the left, or north east again. I wonder when that will be.
At the grave, the glass lantern is still there, the candle now a stump. The wreath has survived surprisingly well. I lean down and remove both items, replacing them with a gaudy bunch of tulips from Lidl. There are still no flowers growing in my garden that I can bring for Felix. It is important I bring him something on every visit. Sometimes I just pick things from the hedgerow. Other times, I bring something I’ve grown in the garden. Or maybe be a shell from the beach or a stone from the moors.
I’m glad Christmas is behind us. I felt Felix’s loss particularly hard this year. I don’t know why. On Christmas day I stood in this spot and sobbed. I didn’t cry at first. Tears don’t come easily sometimes, even when I want to cry. We stood there, in the pissing rain, My husband Alex, my son Lucian and my brother Matt. Lucian put his arm around me, and that’s what set me off. I sobbed and shook. But I was glad to weep. Sometimes you have to re-establish contact with the pain deep inside.
The Green Hill 