I'm pinching myself. Of all the places I never expected to be 'moving into' (for how long, I do not know), the mountain village in the interior of BC in which younger son was born is one of them.
All I can think is: Dennis would have loved this. Dennis would have loved that. My mind asks, then asks again: What would Dennis think of this, what would Dennis think of that?
Who would have thought of suggesting to Dennis that we relocate to a one bedroom apartment in a 'senior housing' complex (10 apartments in all) in a village of under 1000 souls? Certainly not I.
Yet here we are, or rather, here I am: settling into a space furnished with Dennis in mind: his rug on the floor, the tea wagon he kept in the kitchen of the apartment in Victoria beside the kitchen counter, his teapot atop.
I've got his green logan coat out, unstitched the hood to make patches for the sleeves to cover the holes.
Should we not use memories to mend us, when we get torn?