By Naomi Mills
His home had always been a safe place. Filled with the clutter of ages, it cocooned her
from the outside world. The odds and ends of antiquities filled every available space. It
was an old cottage, harsh as anything in winter but a fire would always blaze in the
hearth. Classical music was regularly blaring from the sound system in the kitchen;
Chopin, Mozart and Tchaikovsky filling the air with melancholy or hope, depending on
the piece. She could recognise the opening bars of Swan Lake within a few seconds as
a teenager. That was when she’d spent the most time there. Summer days were laden
with the promise of adventure. Woken by the cockerel as he announced daybreak, she
would jump up, rushing to get ready for whatever lay ahead.
Now, as she looks around her, all she feels is a deep sense of loss. He is gone and
even though he filled his new home with just as much stuff, it feels empty. Spring
blooms outside the window, and it seems like sacrilege, so much life amidst her grief.
She doesn’t know what she’d hoped for – some kind of cosmic mirroring where the
outside world stopped because her inner one had? She remembers the sheer strength
of his presence, and how infectious his laugh was. More than that though, she misses
the decency of the man who’d recognised that the young girl bestowed into his care
needed more than just food and shelter. She needed warmth and comfort and freedom,
and he gave them all without question every time she stayed there.