It’s a fine spring day. Doesn’t stop a grave thought.
The mystery (to me) that normally grief kicks in pretty quickly after the event. When I say “event” I don’t necessarily mean that which most people associate with “grief”, namely death. Not at all. Could be anything.
I am familiar with loss, indeed it has been said that my life is “one of loss” which, frankly, I find ludicrous. All of us “lose” stuff, people, ourselves, along the way. Occasionally.
Yes, so grief over a grievance normally kicks in pretty quickly after the event. However, and this is my puzzle and I’d be more than grateful if any of you have any ideas on this, there is a peculiar type of grief which overcomes you ages, a long long time, after the event. Evoked by, maybe, a sound, a song, a smell, a piece of music, the touch and feel of a piece of cloth, and, not least that most dastardly ambushing you, a thought.
Yes, so am melancholic this minute. Not in a bad way. In a slightly tearful way. If nothing else it’s a sign I am alive.
Hope the sun shines wherever you are – unless of course it’s night on your side of the globe in which case you have something to look forward to.
Dear dogs in heaven,
I knew there was a good reason for the internet. What is about to follow is no laughing matter (though you may) and has given me a glimpse of what it must be like to succumb to the claws of that most awful of diseases (Alzheimer’s).
I woke. In fact, it’s amazing people ever go to sleep. Such trust. To wake up again. You wouldn’t know the difference, would you. Anyway. I woke. With a start. But, ha, such are my powers of deduction I didn’t know whether it was Sunday (early evening) or Monday morning. The light gave a hint (I do live in a glass fish bowl – no curtains). It was too light to be seven in the evening. From which you may not conclude it’s seven in the morning. You don’t conclude anything. You are confused. Very. You find your computer. First clue. Second clue. The Cafe – in your roam of a room with a view – is setting up. Wish I could give it business. But I can’t. Anyway, if they are open it must be the morning. Mainly because they tend to close at about three in the afternoon.
Sweethearts, it’s going to be awful. Awful. I need a Watson to my Sherlock. An alarm clock. My mother. School. Anything. Mind you, family is funny. They will disown you. Went through that phase that all sleep deprived teenagers with siblings do, my poor sister being instructed by our joint mother: “Go and wake YOUR sister”. And she did, although she was a lot smaller than me. Oh the times I grabbed a cup of that red tea (Hagebutten) off my mother (Breakfast? You’ve got to be joking. Time is of the essence) and ran down the street (sister in hand) to catch the bus. Not that the bus mattered. My gym teacher – she lived even further down the lake – would pick us up in her car when stranded. Yes, those were the times. Different on returning from school early afternoon. There was an odd bond between my sister and home. No sooner were we half way up what was a very long street – and I still know the exact bend – she’d run. Home. To the toilet.
Yes, it’s nice to hang onto something being reliable.
It’s Monday morning.