This morning Wife left for sorry old England to oversee some details about our house sale and see the stepdaughters. For some odd reason I've been dreading this for days. Don't ask me why, maybe I'm getting soft in my old age. Dog hasn't seemed too worried, and he fusses at the least little thing.
As we watched the plane take off, Wife saw me on the runways edge. She waved, I waved back with tears that she couldn't see. Yes, that's right, big tough looking curmudgeonly old me had tears in his eyes. "There goes my heart." I said as the wheels went up, my voice creaking a little with the emotion. The dog pulled me back to our minivan and we went back to our new home. Wife phoned from Vancouver International airport to say all was well less than fifteen minutes after we returned.
I'm not sure what the truth of the matter is; maybe Wife and I have been in such close proximity here in what is to this Englishman, a strange land, that I felt the parting more than I should. We've handled a lot in the past few weeks and rarely got on each others nerves, even though we've been virtually joined at the hip for all that time. An hour later I am feeling calmer, but will feel better when I get the phone call to say she is back at our old place in England in the company of our two reprobates.
It's funny, of late I've felt like I'm a puppet whose strings have been cut. Now here I am, metaphorically speaking, slumped in a corner, staring at my clumsy wooden body wondering what to do next, willing the splints and pins to move like they used to at the behest of my controlling strings. Perhaps I will go out and get some cookies to have with a mug of tea and read Bruce Cooks novel "Young Will" until I feel better. Then I will go fishing down in the cove to calm my spirit tomorrow. You never know, maybe I'll catch something.