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Winter's breath creeps over the neighbourhood. Frosts bleach the front yards and rooftops. The dawn chorus is absent now, a stillness pervades. I carry a bottle of warm water with me when I leave each morning, my car an icicle. As I pour the water over the windscreen the water snap freezes against the cold glass. I'm always grateful if I make my commute early, so I can stop at the Continental Bakery and get a flat white and a warm cheese scone to have first thing in the classroom. The smell of the scone and coffee the fill my room at work are the reassurance of an old friend. 

I met a friend I used to live with for beers on Saturday afternoon. As the evening rolled round we decided to tag one on and went out. We drank rum at The Dirty Land. The barman handed Riki a small bag of indescriminate dust and we had a line for old time's sake. I forgot the rest of the night. Except, there was a sad feeling I remember, when I realized that some nights out I could spend the night talking to friends, that night I spent most of it talking to strangers about their work. I wanted to be in my own bed by 3 in the morning and drove the back roads home.

The first days back at school I felt empty. The kids were excitable and managed to make me laugh. It was reassuring to find a routine. Dad went in for heart surgery on Wednesday, and it wasn't until they wheeled him away that it all hit me. Alone in his hospital room I stood at the window and felt the grief lift me. While dad was in surgery I went with my sister and his girlfriend to a nearby pub. The girls drank a bottle of wine and I sat on a pint for a couple of hours. At one point I went out and paid a stranger a dollar for a cigarette. I gargled water and washed my hands in the bathroom so they couldn't smell it on me. Back in the ICU the first thing dad said as he came round was that he was so grateful. My sister cried and stroked his hair. He told Penny he wanted to take her on holiday. He told us to thank the nurses. He held my hand. Dad hadn't held my hand like that since I was an infant. And I realized then about he and I. It takes a deft and heavy weapon to surface our feelings. Heavy enough was the weight of dad's heart.

I visit dad's on Good Friday with my sister. It's another wet day and they have the wood-burner stoked and hot, the lounge is an oven. We bring pizza and wine and my sister's shih tzu puppy, Freddie. My old cat, Mr Jones, sits up and watches the pup and doesn't seem too excited, but dad puts him outside anyway. As dad let Mr Jones out he called Sophie, the Labrador, to come in from her kennel. As we talked we also talked to the dogs, reassuring Sophie that Freddie was okay, not to be rough. Freddie went on bouts of exploring. Sophie followed him and lied down at a distance to watch. The Grey One, my sister's old cat, whom Penny is sure is a psychopath, walked across the terrace and looked in on us. He pisses on Penny's gumboots and leaves and we don't see him again that afternoon. He's just letting the pup know he's out there, dad tells us. 

We meet at the pub on Sunday night. Varnished pine floors and rimu tables, the light dim to soften the fall into the working week. She wore a red sweater and lipstick, her skinny jeans rolled up from her patent leather oxfords. As she paid for a pint of pilsner at the bar I smiled to myself. This young woman that had appeared from the internet wore reality well.  

The autumn Sunday was powder blue. I washed the sheets of my bed. I ate tomatoes and toast outside in the sun, watching the sheets on the line inflate and curl in the small breeze. My house-mate made mango tea and joined me in the sun. We argued over who's love life was the poorest. 

Days off blur and are as swift as handfuls of water. I eat everything left in the refrigerator. I wash everything lying on the floor. The little one catches butterflies in the yard and asks me to help her keep them in a jar. She draws them with chalk on the driveway. I walk to town with a list of things to keep me home and amused. I get DVDs and beer, I get soup and bread, I get the newspaper and eggs, I get chocolate and fruit. In the park I see Geordie and buy a cigarette off him. I promise him it's the last time and he smiles like priest on bail. 

Our old song played at the supermarket. I hadn't thought of her in long time. She's married with children now, they live in Stockholm. I think the last time I spoke to her was online a few years back. Her father had just died and it had filled her with panic, she was sure she couldn't be a mother while her heart was filled with so much grief. She couldn't ask her son anything without crying. I tried my best back then to reassure her, but what did I know, I had no children.