The world is touched...

In a poem I wrote quite soon after Wendy's death (Somebody's Gone), I wrote:-

Yet the world is touched in every detail

by her hand, by her thought

Still as true today as ever. 

Earlier this morning I picked up Wendy's cowry from the jewellers, where it was getting soldered on to a new silver chain. I have worn this every day and night, almost without interruption, even in the shower, since she died. But about a year ago the chain finally wore through the shell and it fell off. I was lucky to feel it happening, and to catch the cowry before it was lost. For a while, I pondered what to do to repair it. A chance encounter suggested wrapping it in silver wire to reinforce the gap. Good idea, but I've never done anything like that before, so some more pondering was called for. Never rush into a job using unfamiliar techniques or materials.

Then I had another chance encounter, and the solution turned out to be Hazel, wife of my singing teacher Michael Bonshor. A few weeks ago I went for my usual singing lesson (I'm a baritone, since you ask, with a taste for Italian renaissance songs - yes, surprised me too!). On this occasion, Michael was keen to show me a 'tree of life' pendant that Hazel had just made, using - you guessed it - wrapped silver wire. I asked if she did commissions, yes she did, and the result is here: 

Of course, nothing is simple, so the first chain I tried on this was too weak and broke after only a week or two's wear. Here's hoping this new chain will be more robust.

In a more general sense, I'm still finding the statement in that poem to be true across so many contexts and situations. Almost everything connects back to Wendy, in one way or another. Every time I see or hear a goldfinch, I remember the first I ever knowingly saw. I was with Wendy on the Ile de Ré, on our last trip together to the island we both loved. I photographed a goldfinch sitting on a rooftop singing its heart out, but this was before I had any knowledge of any but the most common garden birds. Ann Trangmar identifed it for me after we got home. I often hear goldfinches now singing in the trees as I walk into town. 

Today, on the way back from collecting her cowry on its new chain, I heard the shrill sibilant squealing of a swift, and looked up to see it flying high over my head. I still can't hear a swift without thinking of the swifts that flew, fast and reckless and shrilling to each other along the lanes and between the houses on the Ile de Ré. And that in turn reminds me of my favourite flowers from the island, the tall hollyhocks that grow everywhere from the dry gritty soil and pavements. These were the reason I planted hollyhocks along the back of the log cabin in this new (to us) house, for more memories of happy past times.

No doubt about it, life continues to be good (mostly). But that's not a reason to remember and celebrate past times, especially when the people that we shared those times with are no longer here to help keep them alive. In remembering the past, we help to keep alive more than just memories.