On the Wednesday he made me read the cards out loud to him, in order, because he could not hold them and because, he said, he had never once heard them.
Forty-one birthday cards. Most of them say almost nothing. Happy birthday, Lornie. Hope it’s a good one. G. Year after year after year.
The 1997 one has a whole paragraph in it about a job he had been offered in another town, which he did not take.
The 2008 one says: Sam’s off to college. You’d like him. He’s got your sense of humour, which is a strange thing for me to write down.
And the 2021 one, the year Adele died, says one line.
***Not this year, Lornie. Not fair on her.***
Even with the box in a wardrobe and his wife three weeks in the ground, that man would not put a soft sentence in
