Slowly becoming parched
I thought it would be one thing.
Grief.
.
But it’s not.
It’s many.
.
It’s the waste.
.
Vintage wine down the drain.
Bundles of cash in the bin.
A great oak needlessly felled.
.
It’s the hardness.
.
Widower.
Single parent.
Broken hearted lover.
.
It’s the unfairness.
.
It could be you.
It never is
until it is.
.
It’s the absence.
.
Jilted lover.
Missing companion.
Empty drawers.
.
It’s the loneliness.
.
Sweet nothings unspoken.
Decisions made solo.
Skin left untouched.
.
It’s the lostness.
.
Plan in pieces.
Compass unbalanced.
North star gone from view.
.
It’s the deficit.
.
Money.
Attention.
Love.
.
It’s the dull ache of absence.
The sharp pain of yearning.
The desperate cravings of withdrawal.
.
It’s the anger of abandonment.
Left bereft by theft.
The burden of a heavy hole.
.
The agony of irreversibility.
.
I imagined that missing my love would be a bit like missing the wine I gave up.
The first day is really hard but the next day is less hard and so forth.
Easier and easier with each day that goes by.
But instead it’s like missing water.
You just get thirstier.
And thirstier.
.
And thirstier.
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On Coping is my story of surviving on the sidelines of cancer.
It begins in March 2022 with On Coping #1, written the day after my 41st birthday. The day my wife Imogen, the mother of my three children, was diagnosed with stage 4 cancer.
On Coping is the story of what happened next.
Beautiful. Poignant. Heartbreaking. Thinking of you and your crew, George. Sending ❤️.
And grateful for the partitions from this well of enduring love, despite the desert surrounds, that you share with us each week.
Last night spring awakened and it was beautiful, truly beautiful. But I also couldn't help but think of you sitting there - with no green leaves, just thirstier and thirstier (as you so beautifully wrote here) for the water that's needed for spring to really bloom. Thank you always for your words and the window to your grief and soul.