Despite what others may think, one can grow quite an attachment to a place. Spring has begun to poke its bleary head through the thick grey that has settled over Edingburugh. Small pockets of colour smeared across a blank canvas, ready for growth. Everything about this place is cosy. Life is slow and routine here. Safe. Dependable. Or it was. Now the comfort I found in the cobblestones, winding their way through buildings marred with story and history, the peace I found under the willows in the park, their quiet whispering language all around me, the warmth that welcomed me as the hearth was lit and curtains drawn, is gone. All of these comforts and familiarities now tainted. Cold.

“ Did you find my socks?”. To an outsider there is nothing profound or even emotional over such a statement. But to me it plays on a constant loop in my head, a VHS glitching on the heartache scenes. “Did you find them?”. A plea. A final goodbye as his brain slipped into oblivion, his eyes fluttering to their final destination. he looked peaceful. At first I thought he had just fallen into another confused slumber, his peaceful mask about to be broken as he flickered to his level of awareness. But his calm remained intact. A blessing I suppose but it meant I had to let him go, one last time.

My Grandad had in a sense been gone for a long time. His muddled waltz through life becoming more uncoordinated, a step missed turned into a whole sequence. I knew it was coming. But it doesn’t lessen the leaden ache that consumes me now. At the grand old age of 28 I only got a pitiful 17 years living with him. My carer, my saviour my whole world knitted together in our little grey bubble. To some it may appear bleak but he made it explode with colour. Now I see the Scottish dreariness so many others do, all the colour leached to reveal its mottled underbelly.

I have lost my home and my person all in one. One to never return and one to never be the same.

********************

The rolling hills have rambled into long stretches of dune, adorned with grasses. The world flashing past, carrying me away from my life, stretching into new potentials.

“Ticket please Miss”. I stir out of my memory that I wander through so frequently. The ticket inspector has a kindly, tired look about him. I move aside what I am working on, a final ode to my Grandad. Lip balm, unneeded sunglasses, a half eaten Musli bar. My wallet finally presents itself. My ticket already having a forgotten, tattered look to it.

Two swift hole punches later and its returned to me wounds and all. Much like myself.

“Thank you”. The first words I have spoken to a stranger since he left me.

He smiles and nods, turning to continue his amble down the aisle.

“Lovely yarn work miss. Beautiful socks.” And then he was off. The tattered wool of Grandads socks providing yet another closure of experience. The wool unraveled and well traveled. My companion in to my new chapter.