The Aftermath

I’m thinking about the months following my beloved’s death.

I found solace in those months when I lived with his parents.

Lockdown had given me no choice.

Each day I’d awake and walk our dogs on the beach, the same beach Francesco and I had lived next to when we first moved to Italy.

The same beach I’d meditated on about my life’s purpose and how to start a coaching business.

Just as it had given me space to dream back then now it was giving me space to grieve.

Often the sun would shine down upon my face drying the tears that came in waves, sometimes as forcefully as the Ionian in front of me.

Often my dogs would sit still gazing at the water and I’d be reminded of how much Francesco was all around us, how he loved the sea and used to kayak there.

After walking I would sometimes go to the market for fresh fish and veg with Francesco’s father.

We would drive into the city of Taranto with all her chaos, much like Naples, that noise & chaos would soothe me somehow.

Fran’s Dad would set the radio to the 60’s station and the dilapidated buildings seemed the perfect backdrop for each tune.

The market would be alive with stall owners shouting their competing prices.

Fran’s Dad always knew who had the best produce and who was cheapest.

The people were kind, they’d let us taste and try, each convinced that theirs was best.

By then it would be lunch time and Fran’s mother would have prepared something seasonal and fresh.

She cooked every day.

For 8 months I ate a simple Mediterranean diet, usually of “primo” at lunch time (pasta, rice or legumes) and “secondo” in the evening.

I wrote most of those recipes down, my soul being nourished by that daily routine of home-cooked Pugliese food.

After lunch I went to bed.

I’d do a meditation and talk to Fran.

He always answered me.

I think I slept just about every day, if even just a half hour, a blissful respite from the loss & grief.

Then I’d walk the dogs again, this time to a nearby field.

They would run and jump and play.

My oldest dog Hachi, suffering quietly, was hard to get off the bed but loyal to the end he would join me.

The loss of his master and soulmate got too much for him and eventually a tumour came.

I felt comforted knowing Fran and he would be together once again.

By evening time I’d sometimes take a call or two or read my book before having aperitivo.

Usually some wine and crisps.

I’d light the candles in my room, sip my vino and often be inspired to write.

I’d write about our love together.

I’d write about the loss.

I’d write about all the miracles Fran was sending me, his love that was now eternal.

I felt relief in that writing.

A way of processing.

By then it would be time for dinner, usually a “secondo” of fish & salad or some veg with meat.

The tv news would be blurring out as we ate, a nice distraction from our own problems and something else to talk about.

After one more walk with my dogs, usually just around the house, we would be settled in for the night.

Fran’s mother would have her last cigarette before closing all the shutters.

His parents then retired to bed, exhausted with the heartbreak we all just needed more and more sleep.

I would watch Netflix on the sofa for a while, trying to avoid eye contact with the Urn.

Fran’s mum would kiss it every night, she found solace that her son was home with her in the house, I found solace that he had flown to the light. ❤️