Flying Sparks

21st January 2012 Saturday

I feel panicky and stressed in town doing last minute chores and shopping - deodorant, suncream, toothpaste, something to read, collecting the trousers I had shortened, taking books back to the library, posting letters.....

When I meet our friends in a cafe for coffee, their dear faces calm me and I remember I had a life before my father died - but it had a different shape then....Iots of tears around the table when I tell them the story of his burial - touching their big open hearts......

While I make lunch - carrot and coriander quiche left over from ‘The Wake’, and the last bits of salad in the fridge - my husband lays the table and puts away yesterday’s washing up. I feel his loneliness, his loss of how to make a contribution now, like a ripping tear in my side - which I bat away and let getting-on-with-the-packing take precedence. He picks up his walking boots and heads out into the wind and spitting rain. I start the ironing.

I know what’s happening - I have a gap in my life now, a yawning, aching space that was filled up with my father. And I’m afraid that the smouldering volcano of my husband’s brain disability, bubbling underground, will rush in and drown me. So even when he holds me close I keep a little distance in my heart - on the look out for flying sparks.

And I forgot about cutting the mustard.....