Regret at the things left unsaid until it was too late seems to be a commonly expressed feeling.
But not everything needs saying. And, anyway, during the course of a normal life the main things will have been said, love expressed, values transmitted. That job will have been done.
Me, it’s the small things that get me: must show him this, must ask him that – an old photograph, a new boat, an unknown bird, a sentence in a book (just now it’s the Essays of E. B. White, which would be right up his street). That job is never done, and cannot now be continued.
That's what gets me. The simple, everyday things.
