Chapter 12: Bergman’s Story—The Final Years
I had many happy years with Hastings and then one day I woke up and he was still and cold in the bed beside me. I shook him, knowing well I wouldn’t be able to rouse him. He hadn’t been ill. He hadn’t complained of any aches or pains. But there he was all the same, forever stilled by death’s hand.
It was strange. I didn’t cry. It’s difficult to describe what I was thinking, what I was feeling. It was almost like I was observing the body through someone else’s eyes. It was utterly unreal to me and I lay with him for what I remember to be at least an hour or so.
I began talking to him. It’s difficult to remember what I said. Grief has a habit of erasing words and memories. I imagine I told him how much I loved him, how he’d enriched my life just
