He isn’t well. The cold has got worse, and he has taken to his bed. I try to be practical, no-nonsense, upbeat, but it wobbles me. I think of his death daily. How can I not? Is this borrowed time? Can I ask that you make him well? He says that he wants to live. Can it be so, for a little while longer? Please.
We must negotiate. So it is. We want, no need, different things. So it is within marriages. I make suggestions. He says he will think about it. And I must leave it at that. There is time to cogitate.
Yesterday the washing machine’s inbuilt dryer didn’t work, today it is doing. It’s a minor thing, what they call a ‘First World’ problem. And maybe, it is these trifling little inconsistencies that get to us the most, that is, when we have shelter, food to eat and meaningful work. Machines are a boon but also a bugbear. I hate not understanding them, it makes me fear them. Ridiculous, I know. It’s disfunction got to me yesterday. I want to rise above such trivialities today. If I can…..
Despite my lack of self-confidence, I have a will, and I often impose it. Sometimes tacitly. He knows this, and can look after himself. We manage. We balance our often very differing desires. It is ok.
I cleanses me. I lie in it and think about my writing. And clarity comes. The building sites noise, which is at times extreme, can be blotted out, if I choose instead to listen to the wood pigeon. And I do.
I saw the first two butterflies of the year two days ago, and this morning there was a moth flitting about around the table light upstairs. They bring a promise of something almost like joy…..
I forget the wonder of it all, lost, as I mostly am in my head. The sky was full of stars tonight and the moon a slither of light. And there was a face. I am sure of it.
I long to go there again. I remember its light in those early mornings, still cold but with that promise of heat. But it is such a journey.
Will it happen? Will diplomacy take over? All this belligerence. Have we learnt nothing? Meanwhile, the powerless are being starved, bombed and made homeless. Is there anything we can do? Ever?
I have a longing. But for what exactly it is hard to say. I want to be still, to shut my eyes, my face inclined to the sun and to just listen to the world turning. All very fanciful, but I am tired, jaded even – running on empty.