I don’t know what to do about it all. I have never really known, even when she was provisionally mine. I say provisionally because they are never ours, they come from us but they are their own selves, autonomous. It was always the case with her. She was detached, separate, an enigma to me. I couldn’t reach her. I still can’t. There is silence. It is an uncomfortable one. She says nothing. I must accept it and do what feels more comfortable. The gift-giving is not. They go nowhere. Does she want them? Does she give them to them? Is she laughing at me? No, that doesn’t matter. Not really. I will send one more, just for her and then I shall cease. Cards perhaps. I need to keep letting her know that I haven’t forgotten. Even if she doesn’t care about the knowing. Who are I doing this for her or me? As I say, I don’t know. Joan Halifax’s book offers a stillness I yearn for. Is it in me already? I need to become more detached, to cut those golden threads. See how tight they are. Just let it be, Ellen. Just let it be.
