The Fragility of Tomorrow

Had a little slip up last night, a Saturday night on my own and desperately missing Him. He, who should have been sat next to me, bare foot with beer in hand.  Tears were not shed…..grief doesn’t always soak my face.  Instead, an empty feeling where the silence deafens.  Many friends just a phone call away, yet feeling so alone.  It’s just me, me and my wine and a silent room where his voice once filled like pleasant interludes.

This morning I woke up to the news of another terror attack in London.  Our capital city in pain.  More lives taken and more families broken.  I know my tragedy is not comparable to what’s happening in London but the moral of the story is, we never know when tragedy will strike.  How arrogant to assume tomorrow is ours, that we own ourselves and the light that follows.  We are oh so fragile yet oh so strong.  And we carry on, making memories which will last forever.  Because we know that where life is short, a memory is long.  And it’s all we can do is make them.

Smacked in the face with another event

The grief train is as punctual as ever, chugging along with its repetitive rasp.  Why can’t it pause at the last stop or take a wrong turn?  After all, the driver is a learner.

But no, it has a timetable and at the moment, it’s sticking to it.  Today is Easter Sunday and as I sit here contemplatively shouving chocolates into my mouth, I wonder why you haven’t risen again? If it was possible to rise again based on love alone, you’d be here.  You’d be here, tenfold.

C’mon Sweetheart.  There’s chocolate to be eaten.

Tomorrow is my birthday.  There’s wine to be drunk.

How Am I Coping?

I’ve had many people tell me, since becoming a widow “I don’t know what I would do if I lost my husband”.  I have a problem with that statement. Is it supposed to make me feel better? Is it supposed to make me feel bad, that I am standing there…in an upright position, wearing make up, with a coffee in my hand. Because, what you’re suggesting is if you were in my position you probably wouldn’t be doing what I’m doing, in that moment.  How could I possibly be standing there, exchanging words with another human being when my man is dead?

Truth is, I probably would have said the same thing before cancer came and took a massive shit all over my perfect life.

I usually respond with “what’s the alternative?”  This question torments me a lot and I often ask myself “how am I okay?”  This inspired me to pen the following.  Call it a poem if you want.

How am I breathing, and fast
when I’ve seen you draw your last?
How am I standing tall,
when it’s all I can do, to not fall?
How are these cheeks dry
and breast and thigh, when heavy eyes just want to cry?
How am I not bruised and burned
as I’m disgraced that the world has turned?
How can I speak instead of ball
when it’s no longer your name I can call?
How can I hear
when I still hear your voice just like it’s near?
How do I not scream
when now I only get to see you in a dream? 

I hope this answers the question to those wondering, how I cope.  I have no choice.