The Little Black Taxi

Well that last posting about says it.

Posted about midnight last night.

This morning had a rare morning when I didn’t have to get up sometime around 5 a.m. to be somewhere at 6 or 6.30 a.m. so thought I would enjoy a lie in; the sort of thing most people do on a weekend that I never do– lots of other things are always planned.  For which I am very pleased they are.

So a sleep in was long looked forward to for this morning.  Still woke at 5 am though but merely reached over to pick up the book I am reading and lay snuggled up enjoying ‘A Street Cat Named Bob’.  Ironical really.  An easy read and a light interlude of a read after plugging through Rod Stewart’s book last week and before heading into a rather different theme of Iron War, or maybe The Year of Magical Thinking.  Both sitting on the bedside and both will be heavier going that a true story about a London street cat named Bob. 

Had eventually read myself into the lovely half-awake-half-asleep doze that one so enjoys on these rare occasions.

Then an almighty CRASH!  From somewhere in the room.  Sat bolt upright, it was still dark, couldn't see a thing.  Reached quickly for the bedside light, looked down at the floor at the end of the bed and broke into a deep and sorrowful cry.  Could not help myself.

Seems the powers that be, the spirits that are supposed to care at times like this have skipped off on annual leave ever since Tony passed away.

Smashed to smithereens and spread all over the wooden bedroom floor was a treasured piece of Tony.  The little black taxi money-box ornament that he loved, he treasured, that had been his father’s, which he had so often patted, stroked, dusted and smiled over.  The little treasure that had given him the simple pleasure of father memories, smashed into a thousand pieces.  He would have been heartbroken.  I was for him. 

In life, it is the simple things that matter.  That little black taxi was emotionally worth more than a brand new real car could ever be worth. 

It was not just the smashing of the Tony treasure that threw me into desperate sobs but the compounded fact that this is the second wonderful treasure of I have of Tony that has recently been smashed to smithereens since Tony passed away.

Many years ago when we were travelling through the UK we were in North Wales with our oldest (literally) and dearest old friends.  We had driven to Conway Castle for a day’s wandering the streets of the little town and I had seen a little black ornament that truly took my eye.  Wales was once a country of coal mines, particularly North Wales where we had been travelling and one of the products of the now defunct mining operations is the manufacture of lovely little figurines made of coal dust.  Probably the Welsh version of cheap Asian trinkets, but nevertheless beautifully molded with each one almost telling a story of the figure it produced.  The figurines are only about six inches high and the one that took my eye was of a miner walking home from his day working in the mine, disheveled clothes, pick thrown over one shoulder, his little girl picked up and sitting in his other arm looking lovingly up at him, and he at her and her little dog was trotting happily alongside him.

It was a delightful little molding and one could almost picture a whole story being told when sitting looking at this small piece of Welsh product.  It was called ‘Daddy’s Little Girl’.

I had looked at this figurine but as is usual when one is travelling, budgets are tight and the purchasing of trinkets where ever one goes means the dollars would soon be spent, thus I looked, admired, mused for a while then walked on along the cobbled pathway.

Later that night over a nice dinner cooked by myself in our friends’ home, Tony produced a little box; inside the box was that little coal figurine. 

He had seen the look on my face when admiring it and had decided to slip back later in the afternoon to purchase it.  It wasn’t expensive.  Maybe £25.  But £25 was a lot back then to spend on a holiday trinket.  With the help of our hosts using subterfuge, he had successfully purchased it and secreted it in the car until later that night and presenting it to me over dinner.

That little figurine traveled home safely with us from the other side of the world and stood all these years on one of the shelves in our home.  It would have meant nothing to anyone else, but to me it represented the love it was purchased with and was one of many treasured love trinkets Tony had given me over the years – this one being particularly special.  It was on the trip that changed our lives.

I came home one day, some few weeks ago, may only a week or two after Tony had passed away, walked into the entry way to see ‘Daddy’s Little Girl’ broken into many, many little pieces.  How it fell from up high I have no idea.  But it did.  And there it was, pieces strewn all over the floor.  Cannot explain how deeply upset the sight of this caused me.  I sat down and collected all the pieces and cried. 

This morning that all happened over again.  Treasures of Tony.  Taken from me.  Just like Tony.

It is no wonder I am having such difficulty getting through this period of grieving. 

Thankfully the phone went when writing this and a Pollyanna friend, who knows not of this story, lifted my spirits enough to let this trinket grief ease.