We had some news. The sort of news that stops the universe and steals your breath and breaks your heart every time you remember what has happened which, in these early days, is every time you open or close your eyes, that jumbles all the language you’ve ever known so that nothing makes sense. Perhaps this doesn’t make sense. But I’m sending it out into the universe because what else can I do?
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I am grateful for:
That first glimpse of the sea when it’s been a while. The sound of rain on the skylight after 10pm. The glint dancing in my little boy’s eyes as he looks over his shoulder and runs behind the curtain. The wrinkles on my mother’s hands. The strength in E’s shoulders, tortoiseshell glasses, and heart. The fact I can afford to put petrol in my car and drive my car and turn the music up and sing as loud as I can while my cheeks turn wet with it all. All the puddles on our street that delight little A. The people who know what to say and when to say it. The company that is cashmere to touch and oak to lean on. The wide skies that still make me wonder. The words ‘promise’ and ‘potential’ and ‘time’ and ‘tomorrow’ when they still hold meaning. The neighbour’s cat. The little fingers that grip mine and lead me forward, busy, busy. The key in the door when I’m finally home, when you’re finally home. The same old sofa that holds us all, time and time again, the one that you mistake for mundanity and stains but the one that knows the shape of our bodies as it keeps us upright when not much else can. The sweat that runs down my body and the legs that take me on walks above the city that clear my head and make me believe it might all still be possible. The friends. Oh, the friends. The hands held, the spilt tears, the giggling, the years, the listening, all that time, all those stories, all that dancing. The words sent like care packages, parachuted into your life when they are too far away to take you to the pub. The darkness of the cinema that allows you to be in this world but hidden, be in this world but in another. All those stories, the ones that slip into your bloodstream and become part of the world you breathe. Those who made and told those stories, the stories that make me want more from this world. The feeling of cold cheeks on winter walks. The sound of cracking branches under my boots. The way the Acer in the garden next door, the one that was planted the same year as I was born, is starting to glow with burnt orange and a deep red. The white buds of the magnolia when they’re just about to burst. Any second now. Any minute. Anticipation like Christmas Eve. The way sunlight dances on the sea, and the millions of pictures you take that will never capture how it makes you feel because it makes you feel as if you’re in a film, or a painting or a song. The moments that you feel that you are alive and free and on the precipice of something thrilling, but equally, the privilege of performing the labour of love - the exhaustion of bathtime or another uneaten tea is the deepest declaration of the deepest love I have ever known. The places E has shown me - deserts, canyons, ancient forests, open roads, translucent lakes, oceans and bullrings and forgotten mountain towns. The outstretched hands that tell me every day I am loved. The small warm body that knows mine to be his home, the smile that’s like looking at Big Sur at sunrise, the bright eyes, the trust and the tenderness, the way I am his universe, the way he has made mine. The three of us in the car, off on an adventure, or just to the farm shop, moving through the world together, talking about America over the sound of Ira Glass, singing to keep A happy. All we need. All I need.
These moments of bliss I didn’t realise were blissful, until you left and showed us all what it is to be alive.
You have breathed beauty into the sadness and in the process wrapped your readers in love. Thank you. Your writing always stays with me but this, in particular. May you find a way through the dark woods. X
Always courageous to lean into beauty and joy and love at a time when darkness and devastation has arrived for a season of some length. Stunning writing as ever. I'm out of words tbh to describe how real your writing feels to me. Fierce hugs xx