1974, that’s where I’m up to. Spring 1973 left the earth sodden under foot and the tropical air heavy and sticky. Life became harder and harder. The social isolation drove me further away from myself into the arms of my inner voice, the anorexic one.
Summer holidays consisted of the hype up to Christmas. Mama loved Christmas so the atmosphere at home lifted. The ‘Regensburger Domspatzen’ sang carols in German and mum sang along. And it rained some more.
This morning I sat down with one of those bitty lists, the kind that grow out of being away. I arrived back home, here down south to Narnia yesterday afternoon. It was cold.
I’d left my warm second home, my daughter, her partner and my grand-pup. The dog knew something was going on when I lugged the case onto the bed and unpacked to repack it. His big brown eyes nearly made me cry. Pets can really give you a guilt trip.
Familiar? Should be writing …
Staring at the screen,
looking for distractions,
I’m getting them, too.That’s what happens when you text friends. Sometimes they just want to chat. My fingers are drunk, they are typing words that don’t exist: not in any language.
My inner critic says, not today. I ignore her.
Winter winds battered the side of the house.
The ferocity left its mark,
My welcome plaque lay on the ground,the petal of one of the flowers shattered.
In my mind I tried to piece it together, a habit of mine.
Slow to die.