I was drawn into the garden when I got back from work. 
I could hear Tennyson … Come into the Garden Maud… (at 6:50 on the recording)  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nTGkrWFHrLk

It has made me wonder about what it is. What it is to exist and cease (seemingly). The body. Not finding a body and the difficulty that creates in being able acknowledge the loss and the death.
When G died I absolutely knew I had to (effectively pointlessly) trek across the country to a shit awful mortuary in a shit awful town in the middle of the night … which, given it was in December and my birthday, was also probably shit awful.
I had to see, and then, bizarrely deny, that it was G. 
”You’ve got the wrong bloke.”
I then absurdly felt sure my warm tears would restore life to the white marble rigor cold.
I then spent the week with him in the open coffin in the living room.
Loved it. 
Really, I did.
In a way. Sort of.
Still something solid to hang onto,

With P, I made sure I was there.
My breath joined his last expiring breath.
My body alongside his.

With G, I have voice recordings.
Now they feel like those of Tennyson’s.
Very strange and hard to describe as they convey the real person across time to now.
I don’t have any of P and I try to get a sense of what that is like.

Bodies, voice, ashes, photos, memories, feelings, grief, sadness, love … and what is that.