On Foyle's war, I am suddenly struck by the sharp hat of the detective. So dapper. The kind of hat my father used to wear, when memories were made of him. A hat wearer. Even into the waning years for hate-wearing in the culture
he was always, capped, or hatted, or covered, be the occasion casual or formal, there was a hat to meet the level of formality or informality.
I think of him always consulting my mother on his dress, yet in his youth, his dapperness seemed such his own doing.
i saw them change across time, meld together, bond, I guess. The i guess is because at some point it stops it is frozen the mind summarizes the relationship as its culmination or maturity but I was a child and they argued passionately and he kissed her passionately and she would be angry at him and he would use his wiles, while when they aged he just cooed and comforted and stroked her and rubbed her feet, in public and ducked his head shyly and awww that love that love that love just painted everything gold and whole and happy and miss them with my whole being and i don't want to grieve so and tie them to this plane but neither do i not want to honor the greatness of my loss. i lost light and clarity in losing them. I lost balance and sanity. I lost safety. I lost Hope. I lost Albert
my dynamic duo, my ancestral pair, my parents, my creators, my friends