Went to the park across the road tonight with Tom, Rich and Bess. An older man was walking slowly across the grass with a middle aged man who was walking hesitantly, making unusual hand movements. Bess ran over to them and we started chatting.
The older man seemed delighted to talk. He chatted about Bess, Tom and football, and growing up in St Clements.
“And is this this your son?” I asked, smiling at the dude who was standing a little way away, grinning at the ground.
“Yes,” he replied. “He’s very shy.”
“We had a son who was a bit shy”, I said.
mydaftlife 
The more you say it, the more real it becomes. I took a weird satisfaction in making the post-death calls – every “she’s dead” was a masicistic punch on the face.
I found your story through Woman Unadorned and read backward through the last few weeks of your posts. For some reason, this is the one that struck me the most. The simple fact of your continuing and remembering, through everything you do or say or experience. It is quite simply, heart wrenching. I can only offer you my sincerest condolences. Please continue to honor your son in the way you have been, because he truly is living on in your words. Even for those of us who never had the pleasure of knowing him.
This breaks my heart. I have a daughter who is ‘a bit shy’. xx
Pingback: In the space of a few miles | mydaftlife