FLYING

I am due to arrive Becket this Wednesday at about 6pm. Am frantically charging phones and laptops and Kindles. Alex driving me to Heathrow, my dear David collecting me from Logan, my other dear Tory loaning me her Subaru while I'm over there. Have booked for about a month, come what may.

From the way Peg sounds, and from the reports I am getting, I cannot see her lasting even a week. Ativan working and on oxygen but not eating or drinking... 

Afterwards? I will walk around that house, quietly, on my own. After the tears, I will go from room to room remembering the happy times and the fairly shitty ones. I will find a home for all Peg's things, archive and personal. I will make that house look as good as it possibly can. I will put the bugger on the market, and hope. Might not be until spring, but I will do it.

I am sad. 

I am sad to say goodbye to someone I've known for so long. Growing up? You couldn't fault her in the mother stakes. Later on? Well. Peg is mostly about Peg. But I know I'll still call out for her till I die. Habit.

Part of me keeps thinking hah! I know Peg! I'll arrive, she'll ask for meat loaf and baked potatoes with 6 pounds of butter, wolf it down at the butcherblock and be back deep into the stupid Blue Book Project before I can even clear the plates. 

But ain't gonna happen this time. I know this.