Back on farm, in crabless kitchen. Trying to home down, not very successfully. Old dad clearly dying, don't want to be so far away - but no point in just hanging around either. Aussie sister long and much farther away says she came to terms with such things a long time ago; she's no expat just an aussie citizen; whereas I remain - will always remain - an expat in the Canaries, my roots elsewhere. Walking moodily round my land this morning realise fundamental difference between beloved and me: I have itchy feet and always long to be moving, but know, always, where home is; not 'Britain', not 'UK', 'England' - despite, often (especially when on tourist charter between here and there) hating it and everyone in it. Whereas Beloved has not got itchy feet (except around house and land where he's hyperactive...) and will stay in any place, if it's his; preferably here. Wouldn't know what homesickness was if it grabbed him by the goolies - on the other misses a person - ie me! -more than I would. (Though I can miss him.)
All this trying to avoid subject of aged dad. What to feel? Sad sad sad. Tho' longing for him to go. So strange this week; his ancientness - in a wheelchair, impossible to lift, his bed-sored bum - groaning when put back in his chair - his saying 'Come and see me soon; there won't be much more opportunity.' And then the ecstasy of the new baby, my dead sister's grandchild, holding him; his unfocussed as yet curiosity, his alertness; his newness- his dirty nappy! (My dad has dirty nappies too; not the same thing at all.) My friend Christine on Friday night, very depressed, said she'd decided people were basically horrible, life was, nothing you could do would change it (something as a doctor/psychiatrist, she's been trying to do all her life, unlike me.) I guess I'm a bit more optimistic - not a lot. She saw point in her grandchildren though - one in particular. Which is what I feel, basically, after several days round mine. Funny way of life - growing ever more weary and cynical until we die, like my dad, beyond time, seeing point only in these touching, lovely, joyful young who will in time grow as weary and cynical as we and see joy not to say point mainly in the next generation and so on ad infinitum. Have reached unthinkable stage in life when 90 years seems very short.
England burgeoning, lusting with whole ranges of soft green, beyond any colour chart.Oh how beautiful, more than anything in the world, and actually not much colder than here right now - (though today the sun is out, better than for days apparently) I even saw lambs at a distance. So that's alright. (Lambs come and grow and get the chop each year; same cycle, minimised and without cynicism - and without anyone trying to keep them alive beyond their time; lucky them.)
What I keep remembering of my dad, is lying on the grass in the summer garden, its prickliness against my arms and legs, trying to read, while he, regardless, went past, back and forth, doggedly, shirtless, his khaki shorts hanging over his then skinny back side, noisily - hideously noisily - mowing the lawn.
Beloved back with eggs. Late breakfast should cheer me up.