I did our laundry this weekend, as I always do. It’s a reassuring ritual, my little demonstration that I can look after myself and care for another. I washed the clothes, the soiled rags and the bedlinens. I folded them all. I put the bedlinens away in the cupboard. I hung up my suits and pants and tucked my underclothes into their drawer. I folded Mark’s t-shirts and paired his socks and left them on the counter for him to put away, as I always do.
But Mark won’t be putting them away. Yesterday morning he got a call that it was time to gather at his mother’s bedside and he left for Holland last night. I haven’t had any news; she may be gone already, or she may pull through yet again. Realising that Mark won’t be here to put his things away is what made me realise that Mark is gone and that I am alone. And I think, someone will be putting away Margrit’s things and thinking the same thing. If not today, then some day not too distant.