I have been absent for more than two months.
Why?
A myriad of reasons, one of which I wrote about here. I'll come back to this.
Then, there was work and the festive season. I could also mention the market but as I took an executive decision and skipped the one between Christmas and New Year, I won't. Except to say that it's the first Saturday I had had to myself since mid-June 2025, the day before The Husband's memorial.
Speaking of The Husband, his daughter sent me this photograph of the very young man:
They say that the firsts are the worst. They are and they're not. I am nearly three quarters of the way through year two, and this month - February - may well have been the worst. So far. It marks the month our relationship really blossomed: when he first told me he loved me and that he intended marry me. I made him work on that.
Twenty five years ago. This was supposed to have been a silver milestone year, not the tarnished version I'm living.
My resolve to take control of my new, alone life, has wavered and I've spent too much time ruminating.
I digress, though.
I began the festive season going through the motions: I did actually put up our Christmas tree. Last year, there was not one sign of festive around the house. At. All.
The tree was a bit sparse. I think, though, it reflected my equally spare emotional state.
The festive season was also one of ups and downs - not so much for me, but for D. We have been friends forever. She was at our wedding and had been looking forward to two weeks' down time. And Christmas. And some fun.
On Christmas morning, though, as we were getting on with preparing the turkey, ham and trimmings, her house sitter called: her home been burgled, and adding fuel to the fire, the burglars had helped themselves to the keys and driven away in her bespoke Landrover.
Leaving significant destruction in their wake.
To say that it put a pall over her - and my - Christmas, would be an understatement.
Once she recovered - somewhat - from the shock, she recognised that hot-footing it back to Joburg would be both futile and unsafe. The former because little could be done because service providers were closed. It was Christmas, after all. The latter because the burglars had damaged gates and doors so that they were irreparable. She'd not have been able to stay at home.
So we put our best feet forward and "did" Christmas.
We also did the day after Christmas: with peeps who couldn't (and some who could) join us on Christmas day.
With bubbly. In the garden.
The weather was glorious - both evenings - and we lingered late into the night in the cool of the garden. And yes, we also gave it horns on New Year's Eve. We were not alone in wanting to put another bad year behind us.
A year that in its second half, saw the untimely deaths of two young men - before their time. Bernado, at 43, on 23 September 2025 and Shaun at 45 on 4 December 2025.
Both big men - in more ways than one - and who leave bigger gaps than I would have imagined. Which brings me back to Shaun.
As usual, Shaun timed everything so perfectly that organising a memorial shortly after his death was impossible and complicated because of family and festive season considerations.
For various reasons the responsibility for organising his memorial landed with three of his closest women friends - not family. Friends, I guess, who are were family. We agreed that we'd try to close the circle by celebrating his life over his birthday weekend, and when he'd usually have thrown a party. As he'd lived most of the last few years as a recluse, we agreed that it had to be in one of the spaces he'd been most comfortable. There were three. Only one was available. The Sandbag House.
So, on Sunday, 26 January thirty-odd people descended on my garden.
And then, just like that, it was February. As I worked on two projects under pressure like I've not experienced in years. Unreasonable pressure. Complicated by my own vulnerable state. The latter's improving because I have addressed the former. Perhaps with an own goal which could be to my financial detriment. We shall see.
Part of my coping has been retreating to my couch with my crochet hook and scraps:
Some of that yarn was my mother's. She died 26 years ago. With other bits, I've made things for loved-ones; I have introduced new, recently purchased colours. It's been a meditation with the release of busy without having to think.
That's also why I've not done much writing: I'm not wanting to think.
My thoughts are too busy with people I can no longer talk to. Who no longer appear when I just need them to. They all had that knack. Shaun. Bernado. The Husband.
Always The Husband. He's never far from my thoughts.
I keep on resolving to write/do more here. Not this time. However, given that my day job is in a lull, perhaps I can shall.
Here's to hoping.
Until next time
Fiona
The Sandbag House
McGregor, South Africa
Photo: Selma
Post script
I blog here, on Instagram and via WordPress to my own website. I write for love and a living and you'll find out more about that here. Content for the first two, and sometimes the last, cross pollinate.
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@artywinkI create graphics using partly my own photographs as well as images available freely available on 
