Category: Writings

I have none. He thinks it is only a temporary set back and is convinced that the medics (in time) will solve it and I will be back, fighting fit. I am not so certain. It has gone on so long.

As a consequence I am not walking in the mornings. Do I miss it? Not really. It took a lot of muster to get myself out there, especially when it is cold wet and windy. And the dark has always unsettled me. But I do miss the rush of power in my legs, the striding, the fresh air against my face and feeling exercised. I am made still. And must make the best of it.

They caught us in bed and all ruffled. And she the picture of health and happiness. I am glad, truly. But she always leaves me dislodged. It is my doing not hers. Let me be accepting of all that is. And be grateful. For there is so much love in my love. I am held and safe. And so many are not. Sadly.

I don’t know why but Christmas always seems to bring forward such grief, particularly on Christmas Eve, for that was our special time when all rancour was forgotten and she reigned supreme. What a shining woman she was. And she has some of her, certainly. I miss it all and yet I wasn’t always safe or indeed happy.

We walked and he showed me his old village hall. He comes alive in his past. And I like to share it with him. He knows all the names, the houses they lived in. It was a complete time for him and he lives it still.

We lit candles for his parents though the wind was determined.

Christmas Day was better and I thrilled to share other peoples’ Christmases, all that splendour and chaos and familial joy. He and I were quiet and I like that too. Very much.

I dreamt of him downstairs. He was clean, white and I handed him a large candle. He tried to call his mobile. Has he gone?

I’m not good at adapting to new regimes, even if the adjustments are small. Which in my small life they usually are. It makes me a little sad that this is the case, I’d hoped that life would bring me more largesse. But perhaps, in the end, the self knowledge that age has brought me is more valuable. Anyway, what I am trying to say is that it is odd not going from my dark, early morning walk. He persuaded me to give it a rest ‘until my body is better’ and he is right. For I am not right. So here I am in my studio ready to work at 3.50 am in the morning. My little fire is on, my bottles are warming my tummy and back and my fairy lights are switched on. I wish you all as happy a Christmas as you can muster.

It’s not really pain. No, I can’t call it that, though some might. It’s just a huge discomfort and makes walking difficult. But he has pushed. As he does. And hopefully now I will get a scan sooner rather than later (thanks to a very nice sounding Scottish doctor) and finally find out what is causing it. Meanwhile, I didn’t walk this morning. He persuaded me to rest. I’d hoped that my body would recognise this sacrifice and instantly feel better. Not so. So be it. Work will distract, as will tea.

Are you well?

I don’t suppose he will see another Spring, I said to him last night. No, he said, probably not even Christmas. We won’t find out, of course. For his mother has gone to spend the festivities with one of her other sons. Their flat below us is all locked up. And their post box next to ours is bulging. Probably with things for him. Death is a impossible thing to make sense of. All that stuff that is left behind. As if the person had never existed. His window is so shut up, with no chance of it opening to reveal him, standing there, in a jumper or maybe even his pyjamas leaning on the sill smoking a fag. Have a good walk, he would say and raise his hand in farewell. Sometimes he would just say ‘Cheers’ or ‘Bye for Now’. Did he know that I was sometimes irritated at having to greet him, preferring to stay lost in my pre-walk reverie? I hope not. I liked him, you see. I still do. He is kind. He was kind. Is he still here? I just don’t know.

I called two women of my acquaintance yesterday, both of whom have lost their husbands recently. One described herself as lonely and the other as sad. Both are practical women with loving families who try to keep themselves upright and busy but their loss is palpable. There but for the grace of God go I. I feel, nay, yearn for them. And love them dearly. No one can fill the void they must now live with daily. It is our role on Earth to carry such pain and survive it as best we can, it seems. I didn’t know I could feel such pain, said the latter. No. Neither did I.

I took him round on a little detour from our harbour walk to see him and when we got there he’d been deflated. I don’t know what had happened or who had done it. I’d hope that he might have been resuscitated by the time I walked by this morning but no, he was like a patched rag hanging below the window. Poor love. Poor Santa. Poor Steven. I tried to find other fillips. There are a few more trees lit up to add to my collection but none to take the place of Steve. I took painkillers prior to walking in an attempt to make my hips a little more fluid, they helped a little but not much. I must learn stoicism. I try and fail over and over again.

Fail better, that wise man said.

We saw one of his brothers coming out of the flat he shares with his mother yesterday morning. He was carrying the recycling waste and was on his way to the shared bin site with them. I asked about him. He grimaced and shrugged his shoulders. I don’t think he will see Christmas, he said. They took him to hospital in Swansea and he will remain there. We didn’t know. I’d wondered why I hadn’t seen him at his window or heard the TV late at night. He told us that they’d been going to amputate his leg due to gangrene but have decided against it. He must be bad then, we said. Yes, he said, though he was accepting of it. They saw him the day before. He was still chatty, he said. They were leaving that morning and he was taking his mother home with him. I think of him all alone in the hospital, with no access to his beloved cigarettes. Perhaps he no longer wants them. Poor love. Poor man. I shall and do miss him.

It came back after months of being out there in the ether. She’d told me she wouldn’t pay the fee so they returned it with three REFUSED stickers on the front. Refused written in black on yellow labels. Yellow and black like wasps. So I’ll have another go but via a more circuitous route. She can always put it away in a drawer. All that love.

I cried a lot yesterday. He kept pushing me to explain. It was hard but he was trying to help me to see what I was doing to myself. I project, you see, all those fears of judgement onto those I see as authority figures. Those dreadful panel of judges that I carry around in my head. I’ve had enough. I am tired out by it all. And he was the last straw. We will finish it this morning and I shall submit it. And then let it go. What will be will be.

He has it in his front room (though his house is really too grand to have anything that could be called a front room, perhaps salon is better). And, the drawn blind makes it all frosted and blurred. It’s a beautiful tree, elegant and refined and I needed to see it as I walked out this morning leaning on my stick like a wounded soldier.

The usual flood of ex-party goers poured up Northgate Street and I hobbled into the road to avoid them. A straggler lagged behind, a very very tall boy, eating pizza from a take-away box.

I walked down to the end of South Road before turning right so that I could see the string of lights and say hello to the blow-up Santa, who I think I shall call Steven. Then, oh what a joy, I saw the yacht. It was lit up with lines of fairy lights, just beautiful. Walking homeward, and so so slowly, there was a running man coming towards me. It always throws me such things, my hackles rise and my heartbeat quickens. He passed me without event. Of course.

And the other battles with SP and so on. Leave it to me, he says. Leave it to me.