Four seasons had passed to the day that Graham died. Those February March days last year before the pandemic changed all our lives. The virus, of course, was around, and Paul remembers at Grahams funeral it was the first time someone greeted him with the elbow greeting, but I do not recall a consciousness of a virus then.
Naturally I went to the cabin. Serena and I had a hot lemon and ginger, tangerine cake, and chewed the cud on the last year, since it was a year since we’d seen each other, from neighbouring villages. After she left, I set to cleaning the cabin. My unique task this day was to clean the windows, glass from Waveney Window, put in by Graham, his hands. ‘I like getting here early so I can make sure everything is ready for the working day’, he’d say. I slowly came to appreciate and admire his practice, his ease and focus, and why he worked so well with community projects, notoriously difficult and challenging. I had to respect him. I always looked forward to seeing him, to hear his quip and see his face and know the meeting would be an opening of sorts.
What a gift he’d left behind here, and what a challenge to live up to. ‘I knew you’d share it’ he said. I re-read in the book, of his love of the draw knife, all that he fashioned, our first meeting, and our last, gathered in the cabin for a long lunch with Rose and Zoe. I lit a few candles at the alter to Graham, which as the winter light dimmed they grew brighter, illuminating the card of the front and back of his hands. All year, I’ve come here and thanked him for this gift he’s left behind for me to share.
Kaliwood 