You crossed over.
Several weeks ago, you left. I held your hand tightly, afraid to speak too loudly in case you woke, aleaving you to feel the weight of your physical pain once more.
I wanted to be your saviour, the one who walked you to the water’s edge and then kissed you goodbye. I can handle this, I told my loved ones – It’s meant to be me.
She wants the ‘switch’ turned off. Her tired body is sitting in a chair facing the window, no fancy cords attached to her body like some kind of robotic machine, aside from a simple nasal breathing tube.
In front of her sits cups of water, juice and meal replacements all half full – or perhaps half empty. She hasn’t eaten in two weeks.
Stubbornness runs in this family of ours and she is no exception.
Why can’t the switch be turned off? It’s a theoretical question of course. We don’t yet live in a world where we can hold our loved one’s hands and say “I see your pain, you can let go now” and trust that will be the case. Instead, she sits and she waits.
He’s here again, wondering where I’ve been, what I’m doing, where I’m headed to next.
Or at least, that’s what I tell myself.
I waved goodbye to his car a long time ago, yet it takes a moment of nostalgic sweetness to remind me that he’s still sitting in the carpark out front.
Sometimes lighting your own way home means gently letting go of hands and hearts that were interlinked with your world alongside your fears, your hopes, and your dreams, restricting your ability to move.
The Wildflower Diaries has been a space for me over the past 2 years to share my thoughts, heart & poetry – in part so that I myself can read what I’ve needed to hear and to connect with you the reader, on the chance that you also may be able to relate.