Alf arrived this week with roses. It’s his last visit of the season, he says, and wanted to bring me something. Alf is in his late eighties and drinks black americanos without sugar. Last year his wife Margaret died. He talks about her every time he visits. He once told me she had a little glass bell next to her bed. “She’d ring it when she was ready for me”, he said with a twinkle in his eye.
I put the flowers in a vase on the counter, tell him how pretty they are and ask him what colour he would call them?
He thinks for a moment.
“Shocking pink,” he says with a firm nod, “Margaret had some underwear that colour”.
And there’s the twinkle again.
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