I’ve a bee in my bonnet just now and I need to release it otherwise it’ll never let me sleep.
And to be honest, I’m weary of the debate I’m about to reignite, but bear with me. It’ll only take a minute, then I’m back off to bed to worry about something else.
I acknowledge that some people don’t understand why I am writing this blog. They don’t understand my need to talk about my husband’s death, and the feelings and reactions it provokes, on a public forum. I have gone round in circles justifying myself until I have reached the conclusion that I should never have had to justify myself in the first place. I am a writer, this is how it comes out. Deal with it.
I reiterate: I am not ashamed of anything I have written and if you don’t like it, don’t read it. I have faced trauma over the past four years since my husband’s sudden illness and (even more) sudden death that a lot of people don’t have to deal with in a lifetime.
I am raising our child now, alone, doing the best I can. And she’s a superb individual, so I must be doing something right. Right?
But a message came through in the ‘comments’ section of a post I’d written the other day which sums this all up, once and for all.
It was a poem, written for me, by someone I don’t even know. The author, Shimky, might be male, female, black, white. They might live down the road or on the other side of the earth. All I know is that they drink White Russians and love cinema. Check our their blog here: http://wonderfulcinema.com/
Fact is, Shimky read my blog and felt compelled to scribe the following in response to one of my posts. It spoke directly to my soul and is now pinned up In my office. It lifts me when I am down. And that’s all the justification I need.
(In response to the post We’re (Not) Going on a Summer Holiday)
Myself, I love the comfort of home.
Others may love to get up and roam
But I love the comfort of home.
Okay, so the balcony looks out
Onto a busy motorway
And the gang members block
That little passageway.
But me, I love the comfort of home,
Inseparable from my sofa
Like a bee from honeycomb.
Yes, the chimney stacks
Blow this way,
Greying out what could have been
A beautiful summer’s day.
But like I said, in the same monotonous tone,
Why pay for a bed
When here is one I already own?
From here I can almost see, almost smell
The offices in which I nine to five.
It’s Saturday, fuck the shopping,
We could go out for a drive.
And yes, you’re right, my daughter, his clone
Could do with a change
But why buy a brush when I already have my comb.
So how about something shorter?
A day trip to the hills, kicking through the furze.
Friday night was mine,
Sunday will be hers.