On Loss: A Collection of Somewhat-Connected Stories

I still have photos of the three of us on my wall. There are three important commonalities in all of them. Firstly, that they have all three of us in them. Secondly, that we are all smiling. Thirdly, maybe most importantly: in almost all- if not all of them- I am in the middle, arms around the two of you. That's how it was. I was in the middle, and the two of you were the world that surrounded me. I did not think, then, how precarious it is, to be in such a place. All I thought of was the moment. I had been hurt before- goodness, when had I not been hurt? But then, it was different. I felt infinite, in the moment, in the middle.

What I ought to have realised is that it's the middle bit that's left behind. Like the way windscreen wipers clean off snow, never quite reaching that small section in the middle: those on the outside are free to move away, and the middle portion is left.

I am the middle portion, and I am still here.

There is an emptiness in me that I am not sure I will ever fill.

*

Today, I got on the bus the wrong way- I was coming home from the other side; not going into town, or coming home from it. Same bus, different place.

Bad move.

Sometimes we do things for a reason that we do not realise until we do it the other way. Call it instinct. A safety mechanism. Ask me why I always get on and off the bus at the same stop, and I will tell you that it is because, logically, it makes more sense. It is quicker, sort of.

Today, I got on the bus the wrong way, and realised why I always get on and off the bus in the same place; because to do anything different would be entirely reminiscent of when things went wrong. I have only had reason to use the other nearby bus stops twice. Neither of those are good memories.

*

Isn't it strange, how someone can tell you they love you, then walk away from you completely? Will I ever get my head around that?

*

I am a writer, a dreamer, a wordsmith, a lover. There are links between all of these things. I have always been a lover of words; I hope I always will be.

When you are a lover of words, you begin to believe that everyone else is, too.

That is not true.

I can make the statement 'I cannot remember the words we parted on', and it can be true. Not just for one person. But for many. Too many.

I still believe that endings should be finished. I still hate reading books that leave me with questions. I am not trying to be philosophical, merely truthful, when I say: life is an unfinished sentence; I am still bitter over this.

*

I did not think cocktails were a significant thing, until I found myself crying over them during a long dog walk. Apparently, you made good cocktails; whether this is true or not, I will never know. It's not that I regret never having been able to find this out. It's something else. It's just that, that I will never know. I cannot reconcile myself with that.

*

I think missing you was hardest when I was surrounded by new beginnings. Once upon a time, you would have been the first person to know about those. In my head, I am walking in the dark, between my worlds; an odorous, cramped swimming pool is ahead of me, and she is behind me; you, the bridge between the two, are being updated on what may well be the biggest news I have ever to tell you. The only bigger news is when I finally tell you that I have finally done it: I have finally seized the day. I agonise for a long time over how to tell you that. Your reaction is everything I had hoped for.

This time, I cannot tell you; but I'll still listen to that song, still take on board the indirect advice you gave me.

If I could tell you anything, I would tell you this: that she is colourful, reliable; that she has cracked a window bringing light into my day. I hope that you would understand the significance of all of this.

*

I am beginning to wonder whether that song- or, to be more precise, that song in relation to my iPhone, is a sign. It wouldn't download, and not for lack of trying. Maybe that is a sign.

I listened to it on Youtube, and found solace in the lyrics. The beginning reminds me of the sea, and driving up to the hills, even though we turned it off straight away. I find myself missing that awful time. There is a comfort, in acknowledging how awful something is. There is alienation when you realise that, to everyone else, the world has kept on turning.

*

Maybe I am over-sensitive to loss? Maybe I am taking this too much to heart.

The world keeps on turning.