So far I could never understand how anyone could die of a ‘broken heart’ as is described in some stories. Now I can. While I don’t want others to feel sorry for me, I feel sorry for myself most of the time. I feel like a huge chunk of my present and future is being denied to me for no fault of mine. It’s grossly unfair. I miss him so much. It physically hurts. My eyes are so thirsty to see him. Just once. I feel wronged and it is easy to stay with that feeling all day and all night. Walking, cycling, working and reading are nothing more than mere distractions.
While I go about ‘doing’ the things I need to do to keep life looking ‘normal’ on the outside, I feel dead inside. That part of me which wants to hold and love and nurture and treasure and cuddle and laugh and be a Mum, just sits there staring vacantly at ‘life’ as it goes on. Sometimes disgusted and sometimes amazed by it.
“I hadn’t planned to go travelling
when – without warning – they sent me
on a journey to a land with no maps.
Sometimes I go on foot, climbing
Slow stairs to the top of towers.
On other days I find myself blurring
Through stations with unreadable names.
The lack of a guidebook disturbs me
At first. I want to know my destination,
Time of arrival, will there be a bed?
But I’ve grown to like the unexpected;
A butterfly resting on a blue-painted door,
A walk on sand and seagrass.
Once I saw an eagle soar.”