As the wind whips the rain against the glass and the leaves swirl and tumble to the ground in fiery, brittle heaps my thoughts turn inward. The difference is that introspection is natural at this time of year - it is allowed. As I huddle on the sofa, sipping hot buttered rum by candlelight I can truly revel in my hermitage. This is my time of the year, and in spite of everything, I love it.
I have been "putting things up" (a wonderful, Deep South expression) with a sense of vigour and purpose. I have made jams, cordials, fruits preserved in rum, curd cheeses and dense, rich fruit cake. My cupboard shelves are groaning under the weight of jewel-bright jars of preserves and I have finally paid a carpenter to come and create a larder-cupboard under my worktop. He ripped out the old boiler and has replaced it with shelves. the doors are still bolted, and I have a pleasing sense of security that my precious wares are under lock and satisfyingly weighty key. Chateleine, chateleine.
More prosaically I learn that what comes naturally to me is now fashionable. The larder is making a comeback, and people are rediscovering the joys of preserving foods for the winter. About bloody time! I'm pleased, and even a little smug, although ultimately all it means for me is that I can now find jars and old time equipment more easily, and the books that I buy and cherish may be recent reprints rather than osbcure, older tomes.
This is how life ought to be. It feels like a change for the better, even if my own personal tragedy means that I am not living this life quite how I wish. It is unutterably sad that I am doing all of this alone. I share my discoveries and small victories with my friends and I count myself blessed, but the fact remains that I come home to an empty house and I drink, and eat, alone.
My house is finally becoming a home - in a way that it never was previously. Sarah and I have fallen into a comfortable and easy routine, and I feel comfortable enough to express myself unguardedly and to display my natural thoughtfulness and generosity. How much easier and rewarding it is to do that now! I have remembered how to live. And yet, we are not really close. We are not intimate - and nor should we be - and that is what is lacking in my life. It feels a little like a worn and comfortable marriage of the sort that inevitably, one partner wakes up from and claws to get out of.
What I seek is that intimacy. I seek excitement, companionship and comfort. I want a kindred, a man who sees me, and values me, and with whom I can rebuild a life. Today I count myself a widow, because I found that man and he died. The quiet moments in my life are tinged with grief, because somewhere in the dark recesses of my heart I am living this life with him. My soul mate. And yet he does not exist. He never existed. I came close - exquisitely and excruciatingly close - but no cigar.
And so I sit in candlelight, drinking hot buttered rum and I contemplate. I smile a secret smile to myself, because he will come. And when he does, I will be there waiting, inviting him in. Come and join me in this rich and beautiful life, I will say, come and live a life of joy with me, and he will. He will.
