I decided that it was time to give the upstairs a really good clean, and was going great guns at the tidying prior to cleaning.
Then I found the fluff under the radiator. Not any old fluff, but cat hair. Not any old cat hair, but Cally's. Suddenly there were tears in my eyes, and I couldn't bring myself to clear away this last tangible link with her. Will I live forever with lumps of fluff in the darkest corner of the landing, or will father have to deal with them?
The really odd thing is that I am not a cryer in the general run of events. I don't cry over books or films. I don't cry at weddings or funerals. I don't cry when I say goodbye at stations or airports (or more usually our garden gate). But just occasionally something takes me by surprise and I just fill up.
lizdavies
It's just a matter of timing. When we went to Egypt, we knew that by the time he could get to them again, Richard would have outgrown some of the toys we put in storage - but he wasn't ready to give them away when we departed. Similarly, I am only now parting with one or two of my late mother-in-law's things that I never actually wanted for myself, but couldn't bear to think that nobody wanted when I knew how much she'd loved them. Healing is a piecemeal process, I find.