Another Saturday night in a quiet house. Another silent kitchen.

No Craig Charles, he will have to do without me. No bopping or beer.

Global knives stand like silent sentinels in their block.

No slicing, dicing or chopping. Pans remain empty, no cooking here.

The kitchen, once the hub of the house, now a cul-de-sac.

Time heals, yes, I know, I have been healed before. This time it is very personal, very.

My days are daze. My hours are no longer ours. My weeks are weak.

Confused dogs.

I miss the hand to hold. The smile will always be there, in the pictures, in my eye. But the hand to hold has gone. The hugs, the cuddles, gone too.

I miss. We miss. You miss. They miss.



One thought on “Sentinels

  1. John, you have an amazing and beautiful way with words. Mind you, they are from the heart, and that always seems to cut through the language.
    Can’t help thinking those that are less erudite than you would be moved and comforted by these words too, if you decide at any stage to make them more public, as you capture the feelings so vividly and poetically. Wish we could fill the void. Take whatever good you can from the world mate, however small and insignificant. It’s so sad to hear your words and so wrong that such a lifelong foodie and superb cook no longer has any spark in the kitchen. One day soon hopefully you can begin to turn that around. Big hugs.

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