He likes to do things for me, to solve my problems, if he can. It can make him a little irritable if this solving of problems doesn’t quite go to plan. An irritability that is usually projected onto me. I understand this trait better now. It comes from a generous spirit, a wish to give, to make things alright. And I love him for it.
And I am, fond of her. I want her to feel held, to know that she is thought about, and remembered by those who are not quite her family but have shared part of a life, brought together by a marriage that came later, when we were full grown. I have grown fond over the years. We have both mellowed and much has been experienced. I wish her well. Always.
I called him. He sounded less care-worn. He told me that she’d gone into a home to give him some respite. Is she still there? I asked. Yes, he said, she’s stayed there. It was getting too much for him, he said. And other the other avenues they tried hadn’t worked out. She didn’t resist, apparently. But she’s fading faster.
She sent me a message to say that she’d ‘morphed’ into me. Her diet and her lifestyle had all undergone a radical change. She seems happier for it and I am glad. I’m not sure that I’ve ever been a role model for anyone. And I don’t think I’d want to be. My way of living isn’t an admirable one. It’s just a coping mechanism, that’s all. I wish her well, always.
It is coming. He did a comparison between sunrise now and sunrise at the end of September and then December. It is coming. All that blackness. Others have it worse. Always. And there are pleasures to be had. Aren’t there?
It’s undercurrent is palable. Rowan Williams in his article attempted to put it all into context. They’re just ordinary human beings like we are, he wrote. See that ordinariness. They are not the other, they are we and we are they. It is true. But fear has turned them into scapegoats. Let us not be blinded by fear. Let us see each and everyone’s humanity and, above all, be kind.
The mornings are growing darker, the light is coming later and it isn’t blue. There is melancholy to this fact. I can feel that sense of implosion, of drawing myself in, in readiness for the winter. It must come. It is part of life. That dying of the light. I move toward the tunnel’s mouth.
I thought of him a lot yesterday, that is, after he told me what had happened. He’s kissed her on the lips, twice. It was a step too far. She hadn’t meant to make him feel about her the way he all too clearly did. She was just being her usual warm and tactile self. His misread it, misjudged it. He doesn’t go in there anymore. I saw him once in another cafe. His head was down, not welcoming any intrusion or interaction. It makes me sad to think him of feeling dejected and rejected. Poor love. A gentle man. Kind, I think.
It’s a small thing, that in the whole scheme of things could be left to slide, but she responded, was evidently a little lifted by the thought of it. It’s something that can be done, like a spray of perfume, a pretty blouse, a dab of handcream. It’s a gesture towards the preservation of an identity to which she holds dear, fast even. I hope that he can make it happen.
I got soaked, my waterproofs clinging to my legs after 10 minutes. It was a trudge of a walk. And yet, there were small joys too. The fact that no one else was out, for a start (and why would they be?), and the smells of dry earth becoming moist, and plants lifting heads to welcome the wetness are certainly those. I did draw but it was a scrambled affair, under the cover of a porch. It will do. The summer has been warm and dry, mostly. Let the rain do its work.