love

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I say ‘tomato’…

Writing 101, day 5.  Use a quote as inspiration.

Love one another, but make not a bond of love:
Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls
Fill each other’s cup but drink not from one cup.
Give one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf.
Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone,
Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music.

Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet

On the surface, my husband and I are two very different creatures.  He is academic, one of the clever ones, who shone at school and studied at Oxford.  Me, well, I was a thickie. Someone who really didn’t achieve, who hated school and left as soon as possible without any further education.

However, when we met at an AmDram society, and he was my leading man, we clicked immediately.  Laughing at the same things, talking endlessly about nothing in particular. The rest, as they say, is history.

Over the course of the last 34 years he has encouraged me when I wallowed in self-doubt, to the extent that I ended up gaining an Open University degree, and being comfortable enough (just about) with my writing to publish poems and short stories on my blog. He pushed me to apply for jobs I didn’t feel good enough for, yet got anyway. I feel he believes in me.

On the other hand, I think I have taught him to let go of his serious side once in a while, and be silly (equally important in my opinion), relax and enjoy life and see the funny side whenever possible. I’ve done my best to support him in some life-changing decisions, for instance, when we upped sticks and moved our little family ‘up North’.

Even after all this time, we remain individuals.  I know he categorically fails to understand my love of technology, or for that matter, my dedication to yoga practice.  But then, I’m bored to tears by the endless history programmes he enjoys.  He likes cooking, I do it because I have to.  I like loud music, he tolerates it. We are opposites in many ways, but opposites that complement each other – I can fix his laptop, he can make delicious meals for me!

Of course, we have joint interests too, which together with our shared experiences of parenting, homebuilding, travel, joy, doubts and sorrows means we will always have common ground.  Things to reminisce over in our rapidly approaching old age.

I don’t like to talk about it much, but he is my second husband.  I was liberated from the first one nearly forty years ago, so it seems irrelevant.  But I understand and appreciate the deep truth of the quote above particularly because of the experience of my first marriage.  That man was extraordinarily possessive and jealous.  I was very young and didn’t really realise it initially, but he treated me like a possession to be paraded and put back in a box.  I wasn’t allowed out on my own or allowed to wear make-up to work in case I attracted attention. I naively believed that it was because he loved me so much.  In reality, it was a destructive, humiliating, and one-sided ‘marriage’.

That has all passed, and though it is a life lesson that has not been quite forgotten, at least it’s been overwritten by happier times.  By marriage to a good man who is happy for me to make my own weird stamp on the world.  Who, in cheesy Hollywood speak ‘completes me’, who is the yin to my yang, the broadband to my laptop.  Ok, we may bicker occasionally, sometimes we need our own space, but that quote above says it all ‘we quiver to the same music’. We have true love and for that I am deeply thankful.

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It’s not my birthday

Seeing double_1It was my daughters’ birthday yesterday.  I always think it should be the parents who should celebrate birthdays, after all, it’s me who remembers it.  In fact I remember it in crisp and clear detail.

I remember being cheered and clapped by the nursing staff as I managed to waddle up the stairs to the operating theatre under my own steam.  I remember being told to curl up into a tight ball and not move as the epidural was given, although curling up into a tight ball and not moving was pretty unachievable given the size of my twin-filled tummy.  I remember the lights, the smell, the team behind the screen that had been put up to stop me seeing the caesarean incision, and my husband beside me, his anxious eyes peering over the top of his surgical mask.

I remember getting the collywobbles in my top half, due, I was told, to the effect of the drugs, and no doubt exacerbated by feeling so excited I could burst.

I remember the first babies cry, and the ‘baby one is a little girl’

‘Helen’ my husband said

Then just two minutes later the second baby’s prostestations ‘Another little girl’

‘Corinne’

I remember when they put them in my still wobbly arms, one at a time because I couldn’t really move what with all the lines attached, and I remember saying ‘Happy Birthday’ to each of them and kissing them on the forehead.

I remember that instant surge of overwhelming love.  I loved the whole world in that moment.  In fact, they were my whole world.

They had to go off to the Special Baby Unit for a couple of days as Corinne just teetered on the edge of acceptable weight (5lb) and they wanted to keep them together.  They were nestled in a single cot like a couple of sardines in a tin.  Tiny knitted bonnets on their tiny blonde heads.

Oh yes, I remember it.  And all the other birthdays and parties.  The naff magician when they were three, the bouncy castle, the bowling party, the big girls disco when they were ten, the marquee at eighteen with drunken boyfriends in attendance (boo drunken boyfriend…you know who you are…).

These days it is rare for us to be together for their birthday, in fact, this year Helen worked a 12 hour shift (although she tells me that one of her colleagues did make her a very nice cake!) and Corinne was at a wedding, so we only just about managed to have a very brief phone call with each of them.

Never mind, we’re planning to celebrate together in June, and maybe I’ll get all the baby pictures out and remind them that, although it’s their birthday, for me, it was the most exciting and wonderful day of my life!

P.S.  Reminiscing brought me to jot this down….

box hill Sepia

I remember two small girls
skipping along the hill
in the summer of their
cherry cheeked childhood

studying sticks and stones
amongst red-gold leaves
whilst clouds cast faint shadows
foretelling futures
of long-legged beauty.

Then, in the chill of evening sun
Tramping down the slope,
homeward
for warm-up tea and
chocolate cake comfort.

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Not fun, not fair

P1020118

He looked like a gypsy.
Brown curls and dark eyes,
small sparkling white teeth.

How could I resist him,
those heartbeats and goosebumps
girly giggles betrayed?

Swept up by the funfair,
bright lights,and promises of
dizzying, dazzling, delights,

eagerly I entered.
It turned out dark and cold.
No nurturing light there.

Only a not-so-merry go-round
Undulating, building speed,
Sickly, spiteful, stopped.

 P1020122

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Insanity

DSC_0282If ever I go completely insane
I’ll wring my hands and call your name
I’ll hide behind a wall of pain
and flit and flick and shout and scream
and flash dark eyes
toward the corner
where you hide.

If ever I go completely insane
You’ll not be able to say my name
without excruciating pain.
You’ll squirm and turn and howl and scream
And turn wet eyes
Toward the corner
While I laugh.

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When death do us part

If I go first
don’t weep and reel
or let sorrow fill you.
Keep your tears.
But,
place my picture on the mantel,
remember summers in the sun,
and smile.
Though I won’t see it
it’s comforting to me now
to know you’ll remember me
with joy.

If you go first
I will not cry.
I’ll be dry and dusty.
Empty,
like a forgotten room
in winter.
I’ll keep your photograph
on the pillow
where your sleeping head should be,
and dream of when
we were young and smooth
and love was all we knew.

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Winter of Love

I am brittle and abandoned.
Like gilt leaves shed by the selfish tree.
Discarded.
As you wilfully discarded me.

I am damp and distraught.
Like wind whipping drizzle against cheeks.
Cold
As you were callous and cold to me

I am sombre and grey.
Like the sky’s heavy, battleship clouds.
Threatening
As you so grimly threatened me.

I am winter white.
Like first frost, static and beautiful.
Deadly.
As you were to me.

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Found

Entering the mausoleum that was once our home I smell you immediately. I’ve only been away for a while and yet your animal scent has grown and blossomed in the rooms like you are still here.

You are not.  I know that.  I saw the coffin wheel away behind the curtains and the smoke curling from the crematorium chimney.  I can feel the hole you have left in the universe.

‘How sad’ they said ‘too young’ and they put their arms around me while I tried to grieve.

It wasn’t easy, the funeral. I wonder if you were watching from wherever you are now. You are not an angel that’s for sure.  It was odd, being there amongst your friends, your family, your colleagues, and knowing that I was the only one who really knew you.  Knowing what I knew.

Your mum, god, how she cried, while I cried regretful tears.

I spent the hour or so while the vicar droned, thinking about the first few months.  That’s why I went back to the beach.  It was wonderful.  You were wonderful.  I was swept off my feet by that smile, that smooth muscular body, that easy charm. Days in the sand and nights in the sheets. No rows. No fights.  Just love.

Well, that didn’t last long did it? How could you be so jealous when you were the beauty. You were the one that turned heads, while I skulked alongside you mousey and timorous. Yet, the green monster lived in your flat hard belly.  A demon that reared it’s head and slipped it’s chains whenever I was late home from work, or went out alone.

Do you remember the first time? That first slap of the cheek? The red weal it left?  The ‘I’m so sorry’s’? The kiss and make up? And I believe you were sorry. Certainly your eyes filled with tears and concern, and you seemed terrified I’d leave.  But of course, I didn’t. Couldn’t. Loved you.

It makes me laugh now when I think of that first red weal. I was aghast and tried to cover it with make-up so I wouldn’t have to make up some story of falling against a door handle like I used to when my first boyfriend left love-bites on my neck.  I didn’t know that that was nothing. Ha! Just a bit of red on the cheek. Childsplay.

I could soon cover up a black-eye and a split lip with the dexterity of a make-up artist working on a sci-fi film. The broken ribs were different.  They didn’t show of course, but I could hardly move after that time you shoved me down the stairs. Still went into work though.  Always did.  Kept smiling.  I still had you after all.

I will never stop regretting what happened that night, but you were so angry.  Been drinking again. I’d just stopped in to Tesco on the way home to get some milk and managed to miss the bus. I couldn’t get on the next one.  I was only three quarters of an hour or so later than usual, but still you started on me. Accusing me of all sorts – meeting up with other men, being a ‘slag’, oh goodness, all the usual stuff and more.  I never got over how you had the body of a god and the mouth of a devil.

So here I am, back at the house.  Sitting on the bottom step of the stairs. The one that split your skin open like a berry when your head hit it.  You didn’t feel that though.  Of course you didn’t.  You were too surprised that I fought back.

You shouldn’t have started on me in the kitchen.  I was tired and wet, it had been a foul night of rain and high winds, and I was looking forward to a cup of tea and a biscuit before I started cooking for you.  I’d bought steak because it was your favourite, and all you could do was question and accuse. Then slap and hit. So I stopped you.  Before the punching and kicking started. The frying pan was still on the hob.  Still greasy from the night before.  You’d been home all day and hadn’t washed up. Typical.  It took a few thwacks with it before you fell.

You weren’t supposed to die.  I never had.  All those beatings and I’d only been out cold once or twice. Yet the first time I fought back, the first time, you had to go and die on me.

Christ I miss you. I miss the making up. I miss your laugh at our favourite TV shows. I miss your out of tune singing in the shower. I miss you beside me when I walk to the park.  Your smile. Your touch. But still there’s your scent.

I go to our bedroom and find your clothes still as you left them. Rummaging I find your favourite sweatshirt and hold it to my face. Its’ the one you wore when we played tennis together that time.  You hooting with laughter at my complete ineptitude. You telling me how you loved me despite my being a clutz.

Laying down on the bed clutching it’s soft fabric to me, it’s empty arms embrace me with the tenderness you lost, I’ve found you again.

Written as part of the writing 101 challenge