Words

An evening at the end of June. Cool. Drizzle falls outside, fine and steady as it has much of the day. The elder flowers shine in the dull light, like tiny moons, or saucers, or hands open to the sky.

Down in London, Wimbledon's first week draws to a damp close, and I think of all the years when I spent a day or two of the fortnight watching it on tv with my Mum, in her home, or my home. Her acerbic comments about the players, the commentators. Our feasting on cherries.

Six months now G has been gone. Still full of love and grief, I am called by this tragedy to open to the depths of myself, to become new. I search for language for the experiences I am having of pain, disintegration and mourning, of tenderness and sorrow. The old words, the old narratives will not serve. I am alive. I cry. I am afraid. I am excited. I am overwhelmed. I get up every day and learn what I can about this vulnerable being, this strong being that is me. I learn little by little what she needs.