Bad Night

Last night. Rubbish. All evening my head was filled with lovely moments of Colin before I went to bed at 9pm. A moment from our honeymoon where we sat watching the sun go down over Lake Atitlan from our balcony perch at Casa Palopo, the Valentine’s meal we had two weeks before his death, falling asleep together on the wet sand at Woolacombe Bay in the sunshine and waking frozen and damp when it had clouded over and the drive home from Devon that same weekend where we were stuck in traffic so go out of Col’s little red Peugeot to catch some rays while listening to Islands In The Stream on the car radio.
Why then when I went to bed did all those lovely memories disappear to be replaced by me imagining him cold, in his coffin looking the way he did when I saw him last, dead?
I went to see Colin at the funeral home and it is obviously etched in my memory. I kind of wish I hadn’t but am sort of glad I did. I had wanted to see him from the minute I heard he was dead but because his death happened at a weekend it all became quite impossible and his body was whisked away to the morgue until we had appointed a funeral director. By the time I saw him he had been made to look so unlike him that his death was just as unreal as had been before I viewed his body.
Funeral homes are not designed for anyone younger than 50. The funeral director was like a Dicken’s cliche and his HQ in Clapham was stuck in an era not too far removed from the 1900s. Colin’s body had been draped in what looked like a lace curtain in a hideous little room. They had done his hair so, so badly he would have been appalled. So all in all remembering him dead in this horrid place it is not a great place for my head to end up of an evening.
For the first time in months I took a sleeping tablet and tried to go back to those other memories but I think I was knocked out before I could. Rubbish.

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