When the days have all passed you by
And all that remains
Are the silver strands of hair on your head
And the deep lines on your face
I will be nothing but a distant memory
Only then will you know
The true meaning of regret
When the days have all passed you by
Allowing the walls to break down only leaves a gaping hole for Hope to waltz right on in.
And while Hope is a stunning creature, she has the tongue of a serpent and a hollowness in her eyes.
She hides the truth behind silver tongued lies.
I’ve lost count of how many years I’ve sat in this nook, looking from the window down onto the world below. The movements of the people that come and go are the same, day after day, year after year, just different faces.
There was a little girl, though, with caramel coloured curls. Every day she wore the same red coat, and a matching ribbon in her hair. She would skip along beside her mother on her way to school, down there, along the pavement past the café on the corner, past the bakery, the butcher’s shop and then across the street into the plaza on the other side.
Do you remember? We watched her together and wondered what she would do, and who she would be when she was grown. If she would still sing as she skipped along that same path, not a care in the world.
And she does. She does still skip along the pavement, past the same store fronts, most of which haven’t changed after all of these years. The ribbon in her hair is gone and the hand that she holds is no longer her mother’s, but that belonging to a lover, a friend. The movements are the same, day after day, just different faces.
It’s just me up here now and I have often wondered if you still care about such things. If you’ve ever thought of that girl and who she has become now that she is grown.
I see another little girl now. She skips along the pavement past the café on the corner, the bakery, the butcher’s shop and then across the street into the plaza on the other side. And look at her! She wears a little red coat with a matching ribbon in her hair. The hand that reaches to her to hurry her along as she skips and sings, it’s yours …
And I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the glass as I watch you both come and go. The movements are the same, both down there and up here in my window. Just different faces.
It’s pointless conversations about everything and nothing.
It’s laughing until you cry.
It’s the big things, and small.
It’s the absolute absence of judgement.
It’s perfect imperfection.
It’s these things.
The constant sedation has reached a dangerous point now. It is necessary to ease her pain, but at the same time, the awareness is there that the next dose she is administered could well be her last. The body was not meant to tolerate such heavy medicating for the long term, and already it has been several weeks, the frequency and the dose itself growing exponentially in that time. Two days ago, she stopped breathing shortly after I medicated her in the early morning. It was Eyla’s screaming, that Gods awful inhuman sound that I shall never forget, alerting me to it.
I’d only stepped out of the room for but a minute or two to fetch some parchment and ink so that I might write a letter while she rested. I won’t make that mistake again. It’s not the unborn child that I am concerned with. If it dies, then that is of no consequence, but quite simply, Ana might almost be ready to leave us, but I am not ready to let her go.
I’m not sure what the girl did to revive her ‘mother’ but I almost dare not question it. Really, does it matter the means, if an end was reached? Ana is alive, for now.
Still, I cannot close my eyes without seeing the expression on that wretched creature’s face as she, as it wept tears from the sockets where her eyes had once been. Tears of blood.
She begged and pleaded and as she wailed, my head hurt, for it was not just her sounds of panic and upset that filled my ears, but the voices and sounds of many. Who and what, and how many, I’ll never know, and to be perfectly honest, I don’t want to. Only Lord Stormblood can answer that, perhaps, but he hides himself away from me, from his wife, his ‘daughter’, and who knows where. They say that everyone grieves in his or her own way, and I won’t question it, or force my hand there. It is not my place. I do hope, for my sisters sake, though, that he does come back before it is too late. For his, too. There is nothing worse in this life than leaving things unsaid. And Gods know, if I have unfinished business with her, then he must, too.
Why am I writing this? And who am I writing this to? Nobody, to be perfectly honest. For there is not a soul in this world that I can talk to about it. She is the only person I could ever talk to about anything, and already there were far too few words spoken, too many things that we did not talk about, that we will not be able to …
I swear, with everything I am and everything I have left, that if that unborn child lives, I will smother it before it draws a breath amidst the destruction it is about to leave in it’s wake. I am not one to dwell on what is fair, and what is not, because that is life. Life is not fair, but it seeks to take one who was too good for it to start with, and with her, the light that surrounds her, the light that she is fades. She will leave behind a darkness that nothing will ever be able to touch again. And there is nothing just or fair about that.
The light fades, slowly but surely.
I have itchy feet again. This sense of not being where I am supposed to be did not come out of the blue, but yet I have stayed put for far longer than I had originally intended for many reasons, a lot of which have been things that are completely out of my control. It’s been over a decade already, and the longest time since I left home as a teenager when I have actually stayed in one place for this length of time. With maybe a little tongue in cheek, and in keeping a long story short, I guess the easiest way to explain why is to cite ‘A series of unfortunate events’ and leave it at that, for now.
My immediate family are nearby, but my closest friends are all gone now, moved on to different places for their own reasons, and I am regretting not doing the same while I still had the chance.
I talked with a good friend very recently about a time and a place where I was once happy, actually happy, and it triggered the train of thought I am on now. To be honest, there are a lot of things on my mind lately, so many that I’ve been at a loss to even begin ordering them, but the one that seems most predominant is this.
I am not home.
Home was back in the city, surrounded by friends,good food, music and the smell of the sea air. Where I wanted to get out of bed in the mornings and step outside with nothing else on my mind other than simply enjoying the day. Enjoying life.
It’s not like that for me here, not for at least the last five or six years. I am not living here, just simply existing. It also makes me wonder when I start to feel nostalgic for that place where I was most comfortable. Am I just chasing ghosts? There are days, and those days seem to be more often than not, lately, when I just want to close the door on my current life, walk away and start again. I’m not sure whether that is a good thing, or not. What I do know is, for personal reasons, doing that would be both impractical and selfish. I have far too many responsibilities tying me to my current situation, and by default, location.
But Gods, do I want to. I want to just run away and find myself again. I want to just run and not stop until I find where I am supposed to be.
Whether home is in the circle of someone’s arms or an actual place, or both, I am simply just not there yet.
I am not home.