The Normal Cycle?

I must tackle the laundry today, or I’ll never do it.  I’ve delayed washing his clothes now for five weeks. It’s just been all too much.  I’ve put aside his one good cashmere pullover to nuzzle at night when the loneliness and grief set in.  It helps.

Okay, here we go.  My expensive eco-friendly washing powder, 1 scoop.

Set the dial on normal wash.  Start.

Now sort the darks from the lights just as my poor old mother taught me.

His lovely check shirt, how smart he always looked.  In go the white ones and next the pastels.  His pale blue t-shirts.  We bought two the same, good polo ones when he got the voucher at work.

Breathe.  Hang on to the machine and listen to the water running, splashing and spinning with the agitator.  Breathe deep.  Come on girl, you can do it.

Shake your head and get going.

Ready.  Underwear and pyjamas in.  That’s it.

Lid down, right.  Leave it now and make a cup of tea.

Congratulate yourself, Meg, for getting that first load on.

I still don’t want life to go on without him.

I want him back.

I want us the way we were.

How can anything ever be normal again?  Without him, it can’t be.

As I sit here with my cuppa, I expect the phone to ring at any moment.  It always did.  He had the knack of knowing when I was taking a free moment.  Funny that.  It used to annoy me.  Why did I let it annoy me?  Now, how I yearn for that phone call.  

Often, I would have snuck a couple of chocolate bickies; no way could I face them these days.  Eating has no interest.  I’ve turned into a sad little bird, a picker.

But there’s nothing like a cup of tea, and the sigh that bursts forth, after each mouthful is from habit, though full of emotion as well, it is so good to let it out. 

Time to get back to it, love.  Go through all the pants’ pockets.  Check they’re empty.  At least I don’t get all those lolly papers he used to stuff in there. 

“Give up sugar, fat and alcohol,” his doctor said.  Well, he did that, and what happened?

Only twelve months or so and that was it.  What is life when the things that give you pleasure, are banned?  Poor Chris.  

Oops, a button in that one, I wonder where it came from?   I’ll need to check everything later to see what’s missing one.  Not that it really matters anymore.  I used to love doing any little repairs, shortening or lengthening, loose stitching, all those bits you do at home.  And he always noticed and was so grateful.   The honey, he was.

“You keep me nice,” he’d say, “not like some of the blokes’ wives, they never seem to mend things.”

Big breaths, in, hold, sigh.  And again now Meg, come on.

Turn the socks inside out.  Do I have all matching pairs?  I do right now, but oftentimes there’s one missing by the time the clothes are dry.  I wonder where those gadgets went, the ones Sis sent me, to hold the sets together?  I’ve no idea, possibly with all the lost socks. 

Looks like two loads will be enough. 

Thank heavens he put up that drying contraption under the awning outside. I can leave things out all night and not worry.  Thank you, thank you, Chris, for all those jobs you did for me.  I used to badger you, but you always came good.  

Oh, how I miss you.

I’ll get the morning mail and check what there is.  So many forms and things to fill out.  I had no idea it would be so involved.  I should have gone first; Chris was good with all the paperwork.  I left it all to him.  

Sometimes he would call me over and say, “Meg, come here and look at this, you need to know if anything happens to me.”

I wonder if he knew or had any inkling then.  No, I don’t think so, ‘cos even when he was put on the diet, he thought he was invincible.  His doctor advised him that he’d be right if he followed it.  And he did.  But he wasn’t right in the end, was he?.  It wasn’t even the worry of diabetes. No.  Instead, a massive heart attack.  He had no heart trouble before, and he’d got fit at the gym plus doing all that walking.  We weren’t to know.

Stop thinking about it, once you start it just goes round and round in your mind.  Just like the clothes in the machine.

No mail, well that’s a relief.  Could have been more bills, I don’t need any more of those.

Time to hang out the first load.  Get the peg bucket and everything out into the basket.

Perhaps I’ll leave the next lot for tomorrow.

Nice to see that the sun is shining, it’ll make the drying easier.  Undies first and at the back.  Gran used to always say, “Don’t let the nosey neighbours see your smalls”.

Shirts next.  Give them a good shake. Is that something in there?   I must have forgotten to check shirt pockets.  I’m getting so forgetful lately.  Marge says it’s a part of grief.  I’ll take that.  Hang on, what can I feel?  Stuck right down there in the bottom stitching… his St Christopher medal?

Doc said it was a good idea to take a few naps, and I’ve been following his advice. Turn the phone off and have a lie-down.  I suppose I really should be answering all the condolence cards, but it’s still too hard.  No, a sleep sounds much better. 

I do feel slightly more energetic after the shuteye. Not really hungry though.  Best grab something, that’s what they all tell me. Strange thing, how everyone is now worried about my health.  Maybe a slice of cheese and a cracker and possibly some spoons of yogurt.  I think I can manage that. 

Time to check the washing.  Well, fancy that, it's dry.  I guess the sun and then the wind coming up has done the trick.  Ah-ha, I see where the button’s missing.  Off his check shirt.  When he bought it, he wasn’t sure about the colour, light pink and blue.  I said they’re only tiny checks, Chris.  

But he was concerned, “men don’t wear pink”.

"Rubbish," I said, "that’s an old-fashioned idea." 

“Boys blue and girls pink,” he said.

It looked so nice on him that he had to agree.  No-one ever commented on the colour, so he adjusted, and, in the end, it was his favourite, and mine.

Unpegging it from the line, the left sleeve wraps around my back, the right one reaches out to take my hand.  We move into a slow dance circling around the patio and I snuggle my face into his collar. 

Oh Chris, home in your arms again.