THE END OF SUNDAY

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I no longer have the emotions I once had.

Nor the thoughts or desires.

The weekend has passed and I have seen Beauty but I continue to yearn for an elusive shift in my thinking and being. I can taste the edges of it but it hasn’t as yet clicked in. It doesn’t matter. It will. I am familiar with this altering. The sitting and allowing myself to be changed. The difficulty of Obedience.

It is once again a night of sleeplessness. I am out of bed and drinking one cup of tea.  The town is quiet and the surf makes little sound tonight. 3.a.m.

I drink from my Royal Doulton cup and my feet itch. I have stayed mostly at home all weekend. Measuring my life into digestible portions. It was the funeral of Michael Harfield and I had planned to go but I gave it thought and realised that it was the world of my daughter and her family and not mine. I can send best wishes and that is enough. I want to edge my way into places which are not mine. Hang off the threads of other people’s lives so that I am not alone – but it doesn’t work. And so I gently loosen my panicky grip on my child and begin to seek the interests and the people of my world without Izzy.

I have made mistakes and seeming mistakes. I have made some good decisions. I haven’t done anything too wildly destructive and I haven’t picked up.

The Grief and the Illnesses have become entwined and that doesn’t matter so much at the moment. One is maybe wrapped around the other like a Strangler Vine but freaking out is only causing further damage so I stand still and solid and deeply rooted and allow whatever happens to happen.

Sometimes, I dare to hope that it might bring me something sweet and loving and joyful – easily close to my children and grandchildren and able to love deeply –  but I seem to no longer have the emotions I once had.

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