Pour Paul

Was I beatifically optimistic this morning?
This afternoon as I slit open an old cardboard box left over from the Bagnères hoard, one that I had packed last, with bits and pieces of salvaged childhood, teenage, motherhood memories, it suddenly swept over me, the wave of sadness and loss, remembering my father's death a year ago.
A year ago I saw him for the last time, aware that the days were numbered, but full of hope that he could get away from his sick bed for a few days to feel the sun on his face and the freshness of the outdoors. And he said that the minutes of happiness together were so precious, even though they were just seconds now, while I sat holding his hand in mine.