It was a Saturday. I only left the house that night, after, so I’ve no idea what sort of a day it was, but it was long. The house was full; an uncle had brought stew earlier, others were there with biscuits and hugs. We hadn’t been without a nurse for a while. We were on autopilot. When Herself and I went to get coffee, he thought he’d sneak off. The nurse was wise to moves like that, and got us back to be with him. His wife and children, his brother- we were there when he left us. His mum and sister missed his leaving by minutes.
The Eurovision Song Contest was on. We decided that was what killed him. Easier to say with a smile than the cancer his body had been fighting for years. He was 52.
Seriously world, 19 years? When do I get to the ‘not missing him’ part?