April. A month that began with sunshine and laughter, and quickly deteriorated into a turbulent time for us. Advertisements
At the start of February, as the buds began to burst on the pots of Carpinus japonica sheltering along the side of the house, I knuckled down and spent some hours researching sources of local coppiced wood; drawing and calculating dimensions for a suitable frame structure to support our planned screens.
The bobbing beaks of Tulipa sylvestris that I admired with such fervour a month ago along the front verge soon burst into elegant backswept yellow stars.
April is the cruellest month. So began TS Eliot in The Burial of The Dead, the opening section of The Waste Land, published in 1922. All very apt 90 years later, as I struggle to comprehend a world without my beloved Dad.
We would take long walks together every Sunday afternoon, just the two of us.