Talking to the Communist

I spent a long time sitting with the Communist tonight in the semi-dark, just holding his hand and talking, telling him about Florida and about all the people who love him, myself included.

It was a good thing to do, to say everything I wanted to say to him like that. He couldn't really speak much but eventually coughed a lot, opened his eyes and said "So Deb's coming tomorrow."

Deb is my brother's wife, who's flying over from Amsterdam tomorrow and thanks also to her sister who is flying from England to Amsterdam to look after Michael and Deb's two little girls.

He was quite peaceful. I don't think he knows quite how ill he is, and he's always told me he wouldn't want to know, so I won't tell him unless he asks directly.

I keep having a strange mental picture of a future time when I tell the Communist all about it, and how ill he was, and we both marvel at how rattly his chest was: and yet it's highly unlikely, in fact nearly impossible, that this will ever happen.

What a strange, strange time. I should be jetlagged, since I only arrived back from America yesterday, but here I am, wide awake. Perhaps it will catch up with me tomorrow.