Time rattles on. It's almost a month since Debra's funeral. I'm still finding little things catching me by surprise. Not always the sensible things, like the yarnbombing of Radcliffe Square, where it makes perfect sense for me to wonder if she would have been amused; would have approved; if she did any guerilla knitting herself. Or if, like my mum, she would feel that there really ought to be a convention of removing faded yarn bombs before they get mournful. But there's all the other things; silver nail polish; two pigeons in the square; the clip-art on my e-safety briefing; a note I left for Tim about food and cats one night when I was out. This is just the normal furniture of life; and yet; connected somehow.
I was going through the sketchpad mountains and found a couple of sketches of Debra in one. The colour one is from soon after I first met her, when I was trying to fix the person I'd met onto the online identity I knew. The slightly tipsy knitter was much later; after she'd moved to her swinging bachelorette pad, and filled it with knitting bags and tea services and those oversaturated pictures she liked so much.
I made up a couple of CD compilations in the run up to the funeral, from songs we'd shared with each other, and stupidly thought that's the last compilation I'll ever make her (I've still got a few left over if anyone wants one -- comment or DM me) but on the tow path caught myself adding a brand new song to a playlist thinking, Debra would like that.
