It started with a Christmas card. A beautiful painting of snowdrops from my sister in Surrey. I loved it so much I had it framed and placed in our bedroom, under the clock.
Soon after building work on the pigsty began, I fell ill. Joe had it first: a burning head, temperature, a listlessness that was so not him. But as he recovered, I came down with it. Missed all the fun outside. We still don't have the pig, but we do have the sty, yet I missed all of it.
Then February rolled in, bringing more rain, but tempered at least with a mildness that whispered of Spring. I remember sipping soup from my bed and staring up at the snowdrops on the wall and sniffing the wafts of warm air through the window. God, I wanted so much to feel better. But, as I recovered, another disaster happened. This time in the night. Bertie, our beloved dog, died in his sleep. We've all been so upset it's been impossible to write.
I want to talk about Bertie, but not now. Not today. We buried him next to the sty where we found snowdrops flowering. New life for old.
Miss you, Bertie.
