Life moves pretty fast

Tomorrow is the second anniversary of the passing of my lovely Jen.

I have been building to this day for the past few weeks or so, either consciously or in the back of my mind. It is difficult to know how best to represent the significance of the date. I am grateful for the care that was given, and the kindness shown by the wonderful folk at the hospice. However, that day is most definitely not one I think of with any fondness and the edge of the memory is still sharp and has not dulled in any way.

Yet I feel it should not pass without note or be ignored. In fact, quite the opposite, I have felt a want to do something to celebrate Jen and recognise that this single day was just that. It is not representative of a lifetime in which my partner and friend flourished and brought immense joy into my life and so many others.

Last year, I spent the day surrounded by familiar landscapes that we had shared together. I took a walk on Royston Heath and then popped into Cambridge to the University Botanical Gardens. Many a picnic had been had in the arboretum there and it was the last place we visited together. I was there recently with my Mum showing her that most treasured of places with its grove of trees of all sorts, but, in particular, a birch bark cherry tree that is a favourite. I think of it as a living landmark associated with Jen and I’s life together. The warmth of its colour and smoothness of its bark is soothing and restful.

This year I have considered, and to an extent fretted over, options on what to do tomorrow. Time has passed. I feel different to how I did one year ago. I have moved along the grief curve to a different place. There is less shock and day to day emotional distress. Due to time being apart, it is in some ways lonelier, but also clearer and allows for the ability to view the entirety of our life together more holistically and to take joy in that.

That ability to see the horizon, as well as the shore, has meant that one option I have considered a lot for tomorrow has been to visit the coast. To be beside the sea. A place where Jen was always at her happiest. However, I was there just last week as part of a visit to see my dear big sister and her family for the week. On this visit, the seaside location was the pretty village of Beer in Devon.

It was a very poignant choice. Many years ago, Jen and I had a lovely day there with my sister and brother-in-law. It is an attractive location, with a stone beach and beautiful views of the Jurassic coast. The water is cold but clear and on a warm day, glimmers in the sunshine.

We visited the Pecorama gardens and miniature railway – always a good choice for me as it is the home of Peco, the model railway company with whom I have many transactions over the years! The gardens are manicured to perfection and provide panoramic views of the sea. The comforting soft oily sulphuric waft of steam engine smoke permeates the air and then dissipates on the warm breeze.

On this occasion, my little niece giggled her way round the track as we spotted smiling ceramic moles in hard hats in the grass and choo-chooed our way out of tunnels and under bridges! The bittersweetness I felt at Jen not being part of the day was instantly pacified by the visit of a robin on one corner of the track as we made our way past. (See Companions).

It is days like this that have made me wonder about moving to such a seaside village. Maybe it is being jazzed up on ice-cream or hypnotised by the colours of the bunting, but I know I am not alone in walking around such places and peering into the estate agents’ windows! I am sure they are second only in visits to the shops selling seaside themed nik-naks and souvenirs in such places. It is amazing what can be decorated by a seagull motif! At the moment, I am not sure that such a move would be practical for multiple reasons, not least with what I would lose in other ways, but who knows? Never say never.

Thus, having had such a splendid day and week overall, and having travelled home, I have decided not to return to the beach tomorrow. Instead, I am going to visit one of Jen’s favourite places. That is the recently re-opened National Portrait Gallery in London. Its renovation and the pandemic have meant it has been quite a while since the last visit and yet Jen and I have regularly visited there so many times separately and together over the years.

Jen always made a beeline for the Tudor gallery. She was very knowledgeable about this period in history, in particular, about Elizabeth the First. She would talk me through the symbolism of the breathtaking portraits of that great Lady with a verve and intelligence that meant that, even if she had told me a thing before, I loved to hear her talk about it. There is nothing more wonderful than sharing a passion with someone you love. You see them at their most vibrant. Jen always showed the best of childish excitement for our visits.

My portraits of choice were always those of Prime Ministers Gladstone and Disraeli in the Victorian gallery. It’s probably a knock on from having to study them as part of my A-Level History all those years ago, but I find their penetrating glares and the knowledge that the image of their great rival is right next to them, to be intriguing. Like the Elizabeth portrait, there is something captivating about the image of someone who at one time wielded immense power.

When looking at art, buildings and objects that are of a great age, two years can seem like such a short time. Barely the “t” in a tick of the great clock of the world. Even more so when considering the aforementioned Jurassic coast and the geologic eons of the planet. As with all perceptions of time, it seems to have either flown or dragged depending on the context it is viewed in. When put against how long it has been since I have seen Jen and held her hand, it feels like forever in some ways because I miss her every day.

It is difficult to know how to summarise these things. In some ways – to quote the awesome song Jen felt was so pertinent to her experience of living with cancer and epitomised her last years, Ordinary World by Duran Duran – in the context of the great events of the world, “ours is just a little sorrowed talk”. I have adopted that song since as it is a good representation of how I have felt following her passing. It came on yesterday randomly as part of a Spotify playlist and I returned to the lyrics for the first time in a while. It is a song of loss and hope. Of learning to live on.

Thus, to end these thoughts, I invite anyone reading this to go and listen to that track. To think of anyone who isn’t with us anymore but to take comfort in the joys of happy memories and, if needed, to try to find that courage for the next day ahead. May those days be blessed.

(Link to song & lyrics)