1993, it took 28 years to write this

1993,  it took 28 years 

I go on …

The sun is out, daffodils are out, pushing towards the sunlight

The cat is lying in garden, in the sun

With no one to tell it not to

I sit and watch

Sunshine with grey descending

In the sunshine the snow comes, grey begins to dominate.

bleak conditions brought about when

colours depart, objects obscured, monochrome dominates.

Footsteps, where people have trod, are quickly covered by falling slow,

until all is level.

The present, the past, obscured, lying dormant underneath the snow blanket.

Trees, rooted deep against the falling snow,

Surrender their leaves, their colour.

contemptuous of the conditions, they survive,

drawing life from the earth beneath the deep snow

Life now unseen, life now unheard, dormant, waiting.

The snow persists

trees stand strong against the onslaught.

I sit, I watch, I see snow, grey, I cannot move

watching the onslaught, succumbing to the grey,

I saw no need to move.

The grey became a blanket, an encompassing protector.

underneath the blanket I was secure, the grey my canopy.

the surface, out of sight, grey miasma, my miasma

Memories, battles, the monochrome of grey,

the canopy of grey opened for change.

Memories surface. colours emerge

I go on
I go back
March 13^th 12.00 midday, a Saturday, that Saturday  

A phone call, a drive

Walk past people, stopped, crowded in a corridor,

Walk to you

A kiss, a nuzzle, cheek to cheek, face to face

I sit at your bedside one last time

I sit on the floor by your bedside, till they move you.

March 14^th 08.00, a Sunday

The sun is out, daffodils are out, pushing towards the sunlight

Cat lying on the garden, in the sun

With no one to tell it not to

I sit and watch

Sunshine with grey descending

Snow begins to cover me

I sit

all I can do is sit

I continue to sit

I go on
a Wednesday – later 

It was a strange day, I wandered though it.

I was away, such a peculiar feeling, a panic attack on the plane.

I feel as if I don’t belong here, I shouldn’t be here.

Memories came back the moment we arrived at the apartment.

Happy memories, sad remembrances and an overwhelming fear that I’d never last the two weeks.

I go on

Others, in my thoughts, new people, new friends, a friend, my friend.

We’d met, am I missing her? So soon, to soon, phoned, cut off. Confusion

Take one step at a time people say.

I sit,

Steps in the snow, disappear in a moment covering crossroads.

past times, present, times.

Some steps take a long time to complete.

Phoned again, listened to an answer phone, left message; will ring early tomorrow.

Back beneath the blanket 

a Thursday, before that Wednesday 

People asking, a mother, Her mother, a friend, Her friend

“Who’s that girl!?”

I go on

“Are you sleeping with her?”

“What!”

“In this house”

“My House “

“my daughters house….. and yours”

“Mine now “

“You’ve forgotten Her already “

“It’s not like that”

“Then what is it like… just sex!!!”

They go

Departure and walking out Her mother and Her friend.

I go on

Come from beneath the blanket, through the grey  

return to that house, my house, 

my home; need to change.

I go back
Saturday, that Saturday months ago

“Hallo, is that Mr Ryan ”

“Yes”

“This is Jackie from Ward 23, Main Hospital here.

We’d like you to come in as quickly as possible”

“Is there a problem?”

“Can you come immediately”

“Of course, but is there a problem?”

“if you can get here as quickly as you can”

“Okay, but….”

“Thanks, come straight onto the ward”

“Okay”

“Soon”

“I’ll leave right away, but…..”

“We’ll explain when you get here”

“Okay”

“Bye”

“Yea, okay…. Bye”

click brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

I go
I go back
a Monday, before it all  

It was Her idea to come back 

“I want to take them on Holiday”

“Again?!”

“They wont get one this year, and they’ll never go abroad”

“You mean take them abroad”

“Yes”

“For two weeks?”

“Its not a holiday if its not two weeks”

“Where”

“Where we were last year; its flat, good busses and nice beach; and before you ask, we can afford it.”

“Wont they think its charity?”

“There’s only one way to find out”

a Tuesday  early

Woke at 5, panic attack

thought about my feelings of this holiday

worried I’m in the way of their fun,

who wants to go on holiday with an emotional cripple

a Tuesday  mid afternoon

Just back from the shops, bought a leather bum bag

I go on
a Tuesday evening

I stayed on the beach alone, 

mind wanders, negative, nothing else to do.

I go back
a Tuesday later, night,

Can’t sleep, dark night,

thinking of Her mother and Her friend

Have I forgotten?

Panic – they’ll take Her ashes, scatter Her ashes while I’m away, not tell me where, secret, Panic.

Frightened, alone on a beach, in a room, beneath the grey.

The thought goes away, but I know they believe I’ve forgotten.

sleepless night,

Started thinking, they want to go to another beach, tomorrow, by bus,

probably stay here. 

Sleep at last…..

a Wednesday

The answer phone was on tonight, I really wanted to talk, I don’t know why but I panic

a Thursday late again

Is there a time when it’s too soon?

For some there will never be a right time.

Change, memories….and breath,

beneath the canopy of grey, colours push at the monochrome, 

slowly, colour returning.

I go back
a Friday  I go back  

a Monday long ago

“We are gathered here to witness………”

“I, do solemnly swear ………”

“I, do solemnly swear ………”

“Then I pronounce you man and wife.”

a Saturday late, alone  

Today would have been our tenth anniversary.

I go back – to a film

Truly Madly Deeply is a film about a woman whose husband has died.  

We watched it, we both cried, little knowing what relevance it would have in my life.

In the story her husband comes back, not to haunt her, but to be with her, to look after her.

There’s a part in the story when the woman is talking to a councillor and sobbing.

Until now I didn’t know the depths to which you could cry.

The fear of starting to cry because you may never stop.

The wailing that come from within.

and the snot, the endless streams of the stuff that you create,

although they never show this when someone is crying on television or in films.

I go…

Started thinking. I feel Her presence sometimes, not just at home but when I’m out, and driving like a maniac.

She isn’t there as much as She was, She hasn’t gone just settled a bit more. I’m not alone anymore.

I haven’t been able to talk to anybody about this, perhaps it’s all in my mind.

My mind, looking after me, stopping me cracking up, making me believe in ghosts,

ghosts looking after me. I’m not alone now, thanks to you.

a Sunday the next day

Went shopping,  

I go back

Yesterday catching up on me.

Finished reading my last book, will have to borrow a Jeffery Archer, not sleeping well this week, will Jeffery make it easier?

a Monday the 24^th 9.40 in the evening  

I sat on the beach again tonight, watching the sun set, the sea calm.

In bed very early, I just lie in my room and read, Jeffery bloody Archer.

Just re-read earlier entries in my diary of holidays, gone, last year, same time

The time that it all started.

She always had problems going to the toilet while we were here, blamed it on the water.

It usually cleared up within a couple of weeks getting home, but this time it didn’t.

She did admit, when She was in hospital, that it never got back to normal.

She was getting cramps; She had never mentioned them.

It got worse the week spent in Bournemouth, couldn’t hide it.

I couldn’t do anything just watch this person begin to suffer.

I did a lot of that over the next four months.

Tonight, its just me, the diary and Jeffery ‘bloody’ Archer .

Tomorrow we return home, an empty home, I am alone, I know that now.

All I am sure of is the daffodils will arrive in spring, they will grow and blossom. 

Reminding me that the day of your death grows near, how I dread their return.

a Tuesday back home

Have I forgotten

You adjust to accommodate adversities in your life.

If you’d told me before all of the problems started that I would handle shit and puke I’d never believed you,

but I did.

I have wonderful memories of the last three months.

It was probably our best Christmas.

She had ordered presents for me by post.

She’d seen a tie in High and Mighty and had phoned the local branch, they didn’t have one but they had found one in another store, it was in the post and could She send a cheque please, what service.

Her friend had taken Her shopping in a wheelchair, the first time She’d been out for months.

New Year in Brixham, a birthday walk along the front. She walked to the end of the breakwater in Her green coat. To say thanks, to say She had made it.

Opening Her cards,  one from Barry Manilow with tickets to his concert in April; he didn’t actually send the card, but the tickets were real, for a concert She would never see.

Sometimes, the memories of that time are so vivid, but then so is the pain that followed, the feeling of helplessness and loneliness, times I couldn’t cuddle Her.

I can, when I choose, recollect every pain, ache and hurt that She suffered.

Some I thought were in Her head – they are just as painful and more difficult to stop; how wrong I was.

So helpless, I only wished I could take the pain away, but I couldn’t. I didn’t. I just sat next to Her on the top of the stairs, we were on our way to the doctors, again. She was in so much pain She couldn’t move any further. She asked me to let Her die. I didn’t. Somehow, we got to the doctors. It was the beginning of the end, 10 days later She got Her wish: no more pain.

I sat with Her alone through all of that; no I haven’t forgotten.

I go back 

Saturday, that Saturday   

A queue of people outside the ward, I walk past them.

“Hallo, Mr Ryan will you come this way please”

“Yes”

“This is Dr Williams”

“Is there a problem?”

“I’m sorry to tell you Mr Ryan that your wife’s situation deteriorated  this morning, She had a,…. a heart attack…..  We tried to revive Her, I’m sorry.....  ”

 

I go to Her, curtained in a bed.

A kiss, a nuzzle, cheek to cheek, face to face

I sit at Her bedside one last time

I sit on the floor next to the bed, still, quiet, till they come to mover Her.

Saturday , that Saturday, late in the night   

You drift into my dark corners, I drift, hiding away, you’re always there, sometimes.

Sunday, the Sunday after,

The grey descending.

I woke up very early.

It was cold.

All the daffodils in the garden were out,

a sea of yellow and green under a clear blue sky,

 the cat was lying on the flower bed, sleeping.

a Sunday 12 months on

The grey had come and is departing, slowly, colours returning.

You have now departed to your derelict house on the cliff, watching the sea.

All is now past, my friend moved on,  

Her mother, Her friend, gone, still believing I have forgotten.

I have not. I sat with Her, held Her, cuddled Her when I could

and finally,

sat alongside Her, dead in her hospital bed. 

Time to cherish.

a Sunday the Sunday after, every year

It may not always be a Sunday, but it comes around every year.

When the shoots of spring appear, reminding me Her death is near.

Daffodils return relentlessly, a sea of yellow on a Sunday morning, celebrating the day She died.

Underneath the grey, colours are returning.

I go on …