I've just sold my beautiful place in the mountains, the Treehouse. I feel sadness, and loss, and inexplicable loneliness because it's like I have cut the last tangible link to my lovely Kate. Treehouse was our dream, the place we made together and the place where we both thought we would grow old together.
It is pointless me keeping it. I thought I might be OK with it at one time, but I've realised that I simply can't go there without feeling a powerful melancholy and longing for the things that will no longer make up my future. It is not the same place any longer.
We owned it for nearly eight years. Those years were made up of black starry skies with shooting stars that Kate always somehow missed seeing. Ferocious August winds. Rain on our iron roof that brought sleep like no other. Possums on the verandah, and bats in the bedroom. Rosellas on the fishpond and the stocky little Sacred Kingfisher on the Viewing Tree. Campari and blood orange in tall glasses in summer. Ardbeg and dark chocolate by the fire in winter. The scent of lemon gums, of woodsmoke, of eucalyptus, of wattle. The sounds of cicadas and frogs and currawongs and windswept casuarinas. Full moons. April Fool's jokes. Day long barbecues. Mahjongg and jigsaw puzzles. And friends. Many lovely, loyal and fabulous friends.
We planted over one and a half thousand trees there. I promised I would plant one more for Kate, with her ashes. But when we talked about that she never thought I'd sell the Treehouse because she knew how much I loved it. And now I don't want to leave her with strangers.
It's time for bed now, and another night of restless sleep.