I have been pretending it is not over. I have been in denial.
I am sitting on the maroon sofa, with a gentleman of two and a half, who lives next door. Dignified and well behaved. Eating his chocolate from a steel katori. Sitting well balanced on the edge of the adult sized sofa, feet gangling in the air.
My mother tells me that he comes every few days, walks around, plays with the walker/tread-mill, the soft toys and leaves. He never insists on taking them home: he goes home with the assurance that they will be here whenever he comes back.
One day he will come back and some of the toys may have moved, changed, gone, given away. They are not actually his.
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