It is very quiet here.
I’m watching TV and when I press pause to make a drink, the only sound I hear is coming from outside. It’s a strange creaking- I can’t quite work it out.
The silence made me want to write this. Perhaps for company. When LP sleeps it is only my sound that makes an impact. When I check on her at night; to make sure she hasn’t departed too; I want her sound to be deafening. A reassuring boom. Her limbs threaten to fill the bed but she is still so small.
It seems like the toughest day of the week has shifted. Monday now looms largest. It is a beginning where there has been an end. It causes us to start again when our sadness isn’t finished. Time is at odds with nature. It is Wednesday now. I’ve been busy moving things from one place to another, hunting for gold pipe cleaners to transform into little fairy wings; peg doll creations for the tree. We will make them at the weekend and LP’s delight will be worth the glitter explosion.
I am keeping busy. Weeks ago I’d left some books out in the loft; having remembered in time to save them from the impending winter and the condensation on the roof, I brought some down and wrapped some up. I didn’t think I had it in me but it happened. Halfway up the ladder I realised that I was achieving something. I had spent so long arranging Seb’s belongings that the idea that I should preserve mine felt like an act of insubordination. I realised that whatever action I had tasked myself with and the time scale which I had imposed to accompany it were not allowed to rule me anymore. This state of widow will always be, and as it is permanent, then the acts of this widow should face no schedule.
It is his birthday soon, none of us can see past it. I am thinking about how he will never get any older. I have thought about how the photos of LP will age and he won’t keep up with them. Mentally I will paste him in. His little girl, every day not so little. We will no longer remark upon how tall she is by comparison to his modest height. How he once held her on his forearm and marvelled at how tiny she was. The little bundle wrapped up in pale blue cloth, tied to his chest when she had barely been ours. These things are a runaway ball down an endless slope. Never to be intercepted. They just are. The ball will keep going as long as LP does, as long as I am there to witness her life. His absence feels huge today.
It is almost Christmas. I am quietly prepared. I have been packing a mental suitcase for a mystery journey- my go-bag for the season. Christmas is hiding in the cupboards, in reusable shoppers with dull looking cloths tucked into the tops, concealing all that Father Christmas will bring. It is going to be colourful. I am going to sit still and let LP draw me into the magic. She is drawn to every tree, the festive lights- she wants Santa to stop here. December will be magic again.