Reaching Out: cont.

 

Here is the rest of the story which I gave you last week. It was written as a short story, but I wonder if it’s worth developing into something longer. What do you think?

As always, I appreciate your comments.

Reaching Out.

Slowly, she moves from the window. He notices the slight limp in her right leg. On the beach, walking on uneven sand, anyone’s feet could falter.  When he had walked into the meeting room last Sunday, she was already seated. He was the first to leave, afraid that if anyone spoke to him the anguish, loss and loneliness would come spewing out.

‘Do you have children, Isabel?’ He tries to keep the conversation general, but how can he get to know her with silly chitchat?

She leans on the table before sitting down and places her mug on the coaster, which he leaves there these days.

Briskly, he gets up, remembering his manners. She does not seem like the sort of woman— those modern, liberated ones—who will object to the chair routine.

‘Thank you, I’m fine,’ she says and sits down.

He notices the twitch at the corners of her mouth. Got that right, he thinks and returns to  his own seat.

They sip in silence for a while. She studies the books on shelves beside them. He pretends to watch the ocean, but can’t help glancing at this new friend, He likes the way she purses her lips in concentration.

‘Do you enjoy reading?’ She looks at him, then points to his wife’s collection.

He’s stumped. She’ll think him a Philistine. All that arty stuff—books, paintings, theatre, music—he left to Jess.

‘Well, yes, but not that kind of thing.’ He nods at the bookshelves. ‘I’m more into news, you know, the papers, television. I do a lot of research on the internet, find out what’s happening in the world.’ He hesitates, wanting to be honest but not reveal too much about himself.

‘My wife—she died, you know—she loved her novels. I’m no good at remembering names, but she could rattle off the latest prize winner or some new author she thought worth a try.’

He blinks away threatening tears. What’s wrong with me? Stop being an ass. This woman doesn’t want to know about Jess.

‘And what about you, Isabel? I guess you have favourite authors too?’

She takes another sip of coffee. ‘Yes, and I see that your wife—your late wife—and I have several in common. I still enjoy Jane Austen and Thomas Hardy. A bit soppy I suppose and certainly not a man’s choice.’

She looks directly at him, her fingers playing with the fabric of her skirt. ‘You asked if I have children. I don’t anymore. My daughter drowned in a neighbour’s pool when she was five years old. I have a son, but I never see him. He’s a drug addict.’ Her lips tremble and she turns away.

He wants to reach out, to give her his manly protection, but that, he’s been told, is not necessarily what the other person wants. He grips his hands together under the table. How can he help? What should he say? Is there anything he can say that might give this lovely woman some comfort?

‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘I try not to talk about it with strangers. Friends know how it upsets me, particularly Jamie. Vanessa was an accident. No-one’s fault, although of course I can’t forgive myself for not being more vigilant.’

She pulls a tissue from the pocket of her skirt and blows her nose. ‘Sorry,’ she says again, ‘perhaps you could tell me about you. Do you have children? Yes, of course you do.’ She stands up and walks to the clump of photos on the shelf above the television. ‘And I guess that’s your wife.’

He turns around and sees where Isabel is pointing. ‘Yes. Jess was killed in a road accident. Bloody truck, pardon my French, ploughed into her. She was on her way home from the ballet. It was a wet night, slippery road. The driver claimed he lost control, couldn’t do anything to avoid her.’

Isabel steps away from the photos and holds out her arms. He stumbles into her embrace, clasps her small, rounded body to his chest and lets the tears flow.

 

 

 

Friends In My Garden: Hyacinth and Peony

Life has been hectic for the last few weeks, hence my lack of postings on this site. I am keen to return to the travel tales from England but for today, I hope to please those of you who enjoy my poems, especially those from my first book, ‘Friends In My Garden.’

Hyacinth was written for a friend who lost her daughter in tragic circumstances. It was the kind of situation from which a mother would never totally recover but this lady was/is always graceful and composed. Whenever I read this poem I think of her with love and admiration.

If you know someone who bravely bares a tragic loss, you might like to share this poem with them.

HYACINTH

Hyacinth is a fragile flower

sometimes seeming aloof

in her need for seclusion.

The colours of her petals change

from purple on the sad days

to whitely unobtrusive

when she’s hiding from the world

or palest blue

in times of her remembering.

For the memory and the loss

will always remain

despite her efforts to hide the pain.

The image she presents

of calmness and restraint

is it a facade?

I think I hear her crying

in the emptiness of night

when she’s alone with her sorrow.

She’s determined to not falter

but I should remember

to tend more often

and with more care

my saddened, delicate hyacinth.

 

Peony was written for another brave lady. Sadly she didn’t manage to overcome cancer, but she always looked elegant and despite her condition, she was determined to live life to the full. I only really had one meeting with her but was so impressed that I sat down as soon as she left and composed this poem in her honour.

‘Friends In My Garden’ was published in 1995. Sadly, my Peony died about a year later, but I still think of her. It’s a sad poem, but I wanted to express my admiration for her determination and for the joy she radiated, despite the suffering she must have endured. I hope that my words give comfort and encouragement to others who are facing serious illness.

PEONY

This morning there appeared

a flower I’ve not seen before,

a peony.

The climate here is harsh

for so delicate a plant

but to see her blooming

you’d not be aware

of her struggle for survival.

Elated,

blossoms in profusion,

the image she presents.

I know she lost her petals

felt her trunk grow weak

but sun gave her warmth

rain fell softly on her leaves

the one who cares

for flowers and trees

nourished her with love

and hence

today

she came to grace my garden.

 

 

 

Friends In My Garden: Oak and A Time For Tears

The following poems were written for  a man I once thought was the centre of my universe. It’s almost nineteen years since I shed those tears and I’ve found new, strong and lasting love. This post is for those of you who think that your life ends with the loss of one love. It changes and you change but it can get better. You just have to pick up the pieces (probably best to discard the not so good ones) and face life again. As usual, please pass one or both of these on to anyone you think might like to read it/them.

OAK

Rooted firmly in the ground

my oak

is tall and strong

protecting creatures

that snuggle into his trunk

and hide in his leaves.

Wide he spreads his branches

and so high

his canopy is sometimes in the clouds.

I sit in his shade

and lean on him.

His bigness can be overwhelming,

too long in his shadow

I shrink and fade

then I need to walk in the sun

content

secure

knowing he is there

in the centre of my garden.

 

A TIME FOR TEARS

Flowing like a waterfall

these tears I shed for you.

At night I wake to wrenching sobs

my pillow wet

my soul bereft;

I want to sleep forever.

 

Do you cry too?

Does guilt grip you with remorse

for leaving me

for what you too have lost?

 

Perhaps one day

my heart will mend

my tears no longer fall.

One day I might not

think of you with sadness

but after forty years

I know there’ll never come a time

when I can say

‘I don’t love you anymore.’

Cold Hands

White sheets white gowns white faces

walls a putty-coloured grey

dreary vinyl scrubbed thin.

Disinfectant pervades the air.

 

Lumps on beds, wrapped like mummies

body functions monitored,

minds in zones beyond our reach.

Around them hover guardians of gadgetry

in sterile masks

adjusting tubes

connecting life support machines

to almost lifeless bodies.

 

Cryptic messages scribbled and hung

on boards at every bed.

This one says she’s dying.

 

With shaking hands I reach for hers

clasp the claw-like fingers

and remember:

dresses for a teenage Cinderella

who turned into a pumpkin

despite your efforts to catch her a prince;

Sunday roasts and several thousand casseroles,

bottling fruit and making jam.

 

A gardener’s hands,

no time for manicures and painted nails.

Despite hospital scrubs

a patch of green remains

from the weeds you pulled last week.

 

Three generations of babies

your hands have cradled.

How many knees have they patched?

Brows stroked?

Tears wiped?

 

Can you feel my tears on your fingers?

Are you still here or have you already gone?

Mum, your hands are so cold.

Colours – Grey

P1010593 (640x281)

Grey is not one of my favourite colours, but I think it depicts the emotional state of someone experiencing this kind of loss and grief.

 

 

The ocean's rhythm

The ocean’s rhythm

 

GREY

She watches the sun set then gathers her jacket closer to her chest. Under her bare feet the sand feels crunchy. It makes a squelching sound with each step. The water whispers ‘Sh-sh-sh,’ then retreats with an inward sigh, as if drawing breath before rushing back to the shore.

Toes half-buried in the sand, the woman waits. No matter how hard she tries to resist, the shock of that first splash catches her breath and forces a short, sharp squeak from her. Two waves later and her response is childlike. She rolls her trackpants higher and dances along the water’s edge, swaying in and out with the ocean’s rhythm.

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