The house is warm and cosy.
There are buns in the oven.
There is a pile of quilts for quilting.
There is washing in the machine.
The kitchen is tidy.
The floors are hoovered.
And I'm crying.
Because you're not here to share it with me. I wanted to tell you how Bank Lady sorted everything out today, and whilst I know you know, it's not the same as telling you. I want to hear you tell me again how proud you are of me, how much it matters to you, how much you love the things I do, and my cooking and so on. I want to hear it Rich.
I miss you so badly. I miss you in the dark nights and the light mornings and the gaming evenings and the working days. I miss you in the cups of tea and the bacon sandwiches and the interruped showers.
I miss you in being able to touch type so I can type through my tears and just let you know. I miss you, whilst I sit in your jeans, your t-shirt, on your chair, just cow-noising and missing you.
I would give anything for you to come home. I know you didn't want to go, I know that you love me and the AC and that we are your world. That keeps me warm at night, to know how happy you were, how much you love us, and how you never let me down on a promise.
And you promised me it would all be fine.
And it will.