I walked a different way this morning going straight to the harbour and then backwards to the kick the bar on the Prom. It felt odd. I wanted to shake up my perspective, try to see things differently. I noticed things I hadn’t seen before, signage, Christmas trees in other living rooms, another star like the one our neighbour has in his window. There were other hills to climb. It was good to do but it’s interesting how unsettling it is. Just that tiny change. A miniscule thing. And I had the quietness first rather than last.
She wrote it again, saying it was the ‘hardest thing we’d ever had to do’. And yet it wasn’t. And how can she know? How can she know how the rest of us felt? I remember us laughing, particularly when the ashes covered us. Does she want it to be so? Does she want people to feel for her? I suppose so. It is an odd thing social media – is it real? Someone who was my friend at school, so long ago, is now hers and writes about her memories of her. Did she ever meet her? I cannot remember, possibly. We each own our own truth – let it be so. But just don’t speak on my behalf. I can’t tick it. I’m sorry.
This application is such an elephant to push up the stairs or perhaps a piano is a better metaphor. A great galumphing thing. My back is rigid with the anticipation of it again. He is a help and it is a help to him, taking him out of his maudlin state. We went to bed out of sorts with each other, he wants to stay still and I need to move. Let it be. We are not in each other’s pockets. I shall take trains. I want to move, to be on the move. But only when this thing has been done. Good enough, well enough. I want to reach out to her. Will she meet me half way?