Moving On

They’d always have their memories, but the time had finally come for her to let Phil go

- Carolyn Lewis

He wouldn’t recognise my car so I thought it would be all right. I wasn’t doing anything wrong, but that didn’t stop my heart thumping so hard I thought I’d crack a rib. Mum had told me that Phil was moving. ‘Going to Scotland apparently,’ she said carefully, as if she knew what those words might mean to me.

Scotland. He’d talked of living there when we were together. It was where his grandfather came from and Phil had spoken many times about seeing the Highlands, of walking, of looking at the colours, the skies. We never went; somehow we didn’t get around to it. We went to Spain and France and had a wonderful time in Greece.

Our last holiday together was in France and we knew that there wouldn’t be any more holidays. At least, not together. That was such a sad time because everywhere we went, there were people having a wonderful holiday; family groups, children squealing with excitement, grandparents enjoying the wine and the sunshine and there were couples, like us.

Only not quite like us. I’d sit and watch them sometimes, sitting at a table in a leafy square, just like Phil and I did. I watched the easy way they spoke to each other, the touch of an arm, a shared smile, a laugh, and I ached because we didn’t have that.

We’d had it once, at the beginning when all I could think about was Phil: what he might be doing, was he talking to someone? Was he working or on his way home? Was he watching television or listening to music in his bedroom? He said that about me, too. ‘Can’t get you out of my mind,’ he told me, ‘Doesn’t matter what I do, there you are, taking up all the space in my head.’