A quiet Sunday. Sun, lots of wind and cold! The roses in the garden are in full bloom, especially the dark purple ones which I had not expected to survive. In fact one of the more ordinary pink roses has died, and the other one is not in bloom yet, although it has formed buds. The service this morning was quiet too, half the congregation having gone to Amsterdam to witness the blessing of a new pastor in a Dutch protestant church, a popular retired church member who studied theology after being made redundant and has begun a new career, or rather followed his vocation. The hymns in The Hague were all traditional and beautiful. No mission songs or Kendrick songs, which I actually dislike during a church service. It was all about the good shepherd, and so was the anthem.

Yesterday I went to Veenendaal, amongst other things to collect a dinner set in my father's apartment. It was quiet, but it looked as if he could come in any time. I felt he would be glad to see me. If he had lived, he would have urged me to take him on a drive to see the flowering trees, the bright green grass, the chestnuts in full bloom with their white and red "candles", the beech trees with their translucent reddish and yellow-green leaves, and the river, the sun sparkling on the water which is very low because of this long spell of dry weather, which we like, but the farmers don't. I went to his grave, to see if the stone had been replaced bearing his name. It had, his letters brighter and newer than those spelling my mother's name. It is odd to think he and my mother are there, and I do not feel close to him there. A dead body is just that, not the personality he once was and will remain for me and the people who loved him. His paintings, his writings and his organ which he played every day mornings and evenings before going to sleep, are all more him than anything else. So I feel that here in my living room, where his organ – two manuals and a full pedal - is now, he is closer to me than anywhere else. And he would have approved. When I looked through his photo albums which were very carefully labelled and organised, I was moved by an album in which he had put pictures of the weddings of each of his children. Of my youngest brother of both his weddings. Fortunately he had not torn out the pictures of his first wedding. But also of my wedding, although my parents did not attend it as they were dead against it. Nevertheless the pictures were there, without any comment, plus the invitation cards. Somehow or other he is still so close to me and I can't imagine or grasp he is no longer among us. He is in spirit. But it is so quiet now, not speaking to him on the telephone every night, just telling me about his often uneventful day, the meals he had, the people who came to see him, most days just caretakers, although he had many friends. I do miss that. Gradually I feel truly orphaned and widowed, a loose end, not belonging to anyone, even if I know that people never belong to anyone, but may only be attached to another person, at best through the bond of love, of children, of family. Yes, I have brothers and a sister, but they all have their own families now. They are each and every one of them not just parents but grandparents and have busy lives. To Dutch standards they live rather far away from me too. And they have no clue about how I live, what I do. Perhaps I do not really know what they do all day either.

                The graveyard is a nice and quiet park, an old sand hill in the middle of the peat, the river valley,  on which Veenendaal , as the name so aptly suggests, is built. It is big, beautifully kept and has a lot of old trees. Not a bad place to be, a peaceful garden of remembrance.

                So thinking about all that I water and tie my roses, ramblers which tend to flop in all directions. I have to lead and guide them, very carefully, so that they grow well, cover my wall and are happy. They even smell in the evening, an intoxicating smell similar to the smell of the wild roses which grow in the dunes, on very sandy soil.