Half past six tonight, while I was fighting the roundabouts, you finally went.

Here's some of the things you gave me:

A Book each year on my birthday, each of which were huge in my life, and made me want to be a writer, too.

A view of religion that transcended church buildings and vestements and narrow thinking.  Your Jesus wore boots and was always ready to take you back.

Masses of wonderful knowledge because you were so very clever, with a lively, unconventional mind.

The fact that though you didn't suffer fools gladly, you had a kindness in you, that understood humanity and it's weakness.

Your laughter. 

Long political discussions and arguments.  You and Dad, who liked to wind you up.

Your company on trips to the theater, museums and galleries.

Your beautiful eyes and indomitable spirit through everything life threw at you.

I remember:

When you buried the cat, in a nightie and wellingtons (you, not the cat) in a thunderstorm at midnight - sliding it down into darkness like a ship into deep water, because you were independent and crazy.

You giving all the trees around your home names, and visiting them on your walks, leaving them little gifts at their roots.

You feeding the vixen and her cubs every day at your back door.

You, falling in love with a Welshman, and learning Welsh.

You - on the cliffpath out of Mousehole to Lamorna Cove - where you can walk free now whenever you like, along with all the other spirits that dwell there, waiting for me:

   

 

"Diwedd y gan yw'r geiniog."  - At the end of the song comes payment.
"Bum gall unwraith - hynny oedd, llefain pan ym ganed."  - I was wise once: when I was born, I cried."

Bye, Aunt P.