I don’t know where to begin.
I am home. Weary, flea and mosquito bitten, but I am home. We did it. The job is done. Has she been put to rest? Who knows? The sparrows, the radio coming on sans battery, the stick insect reluctant to leave the bonnet of the car and the laughing My Little Pony imply the contrary.
I behaved like a child. I felt like a child. Hurt, petulance, anger, grief, frustration, fear, panic and loss all of it – held like a ball in my stomach. It had to come out. Poor loves. They felt the same, clearly. And I love them all, even so. I just want to say sorry. Sorry for it all. But the love was there, too. The swim in the sea holding her hand. The offer of a spray of perfume. The smell of the both of them. Hearing them laugh in the other room. Talking about sex and vibrators over dinner. Do you pleasure yourself? Finding one thing after another that burst memories in our heads. The booze. Bottle after bottle in every cupboard. The dirt, those bites, the dust, the stink of furniture polish, the tiredness of the house. And those walks alone. The aroma of the bakeries and the jasmine. The downpours, being drenched and feeling high. My tears at the airport. Never again. I won’t happen again. It can’t.
It is just love. It is just about being human. I can’t make it neat. I can’t always make it kind.
At the airport overhearing two middle-aged women ahead of me with strong Birmingham accents and poodle perms. One of them saying, as she nudges her friend in the arm and looks down at her walking stick: ‘And she checked me stick for drugs.’
The kind men sitting next to me on the plane getting down my suitcase but not seeing me crying before we landed.
Home now to the wind, rain and peace and him. It is enough.