And The Earth Fell Away - End
…saying goodbye
Our flights were changed, brought forward by a full week. Down £100, the revelation hit that I had indeed come this far to say goodbye. As my son slept soothed by the sound of the waves I cried for the loss of my most treasured friend, my precious love, my security blanket for oh so long… and our legend. Like watching a terminally ill friend die, I knew what I had to do. I had to say goodbye and like a baby I wept and moaned that my fate should dictate this. I did not want to accept nor acknowledge the inevitable. I didn’t want to be alone. I had grown accustomed to the shadow he cast over my life. Just as some people cannot cope when they are cured from a terrible and chronic illness, so I felt desperate at the loss of the devil I knew. The infliction I had nursed for so long could no longer be my identity, my excuse or my shield.
With each wave the ocean washed away the salty tears that fell behind my sunglasses. My son slept on.
….
…the beach house last night
I could kiss his lips and nuzzle in the nape of his neck and travel in time.
Whether it was the familiar smell of warmth, sweat, deodorant, cigarettes and alcohol mingling - or that indeed my body and my soul once again remembered its soulmate, its playmate - I was back where once we had been before. Each and every encounter those two bodies had shared over a lifetime; lifetimes, were connected, and could be recalled in my memory as clear and with a clarity that would shrink time and bridge plains, projecting me back to that moment: New York on our first adventure, London, as we sunk deeper, or the desperation of Australia.
…
I realized at once that we could not, and could never, survive the drudgery of daily life together. We were adrift in that world and could not express ourselves, nor relate to one another over who does the dishes, who cooks the meal, or a cautionary “might be late in from work”. We could only ‘play’ house and we knew it. The life and breath we shared existed in the escape, the lost weekend and the retreat. Living there, inhabiting that space we were fucking great. Everything harmonized. It was no-ones turn, it just was. Intense love-making swam fluidly into table-setting. Food appeared joyously and decadently scrumptious. A game of hoopla, full of competitive vigor, sank into a beckoning to the veranda to spot a kookaburra, cockatoo or parakeet. He surfed and I sat, he slept and I wrote, I talked and he listened, he spoke and I knew. It just was. But you couldn’t bottle it and take it home. It had a voracious appetite for the elicit and the exclusive and detested routine and responsibility. Given time it would destroy us. It had to be quelled.
It had to be quelled.
On our last night we wrote endless lists – living wills if you like – of books to read, albums to buy and films to watch. Even recipes. If we were saying goodbye we still had a lot to share. Like packing clothes for a long journey, the lists were carefully constructed to provide maximum value.
End lines.
We roll through the departure gate, eyes ahead traveling in one direction. “Where’s Michael gone?” Louis asks over and over. Ignoring my replies his words seem more a mantra than an enquiry. “He’s gone Louis. We said goodbye to him, didn’t we. Just you and me now, Louis and Mummy.”
As I fill the seat pockets in front of me with essential items, I turn to see if Louis needs a book or his stickers. He has gone: Drifted into oblivion. Head tilted to one side with the back of his hand resting against my leg; seeking the warmth beneath my jeans.
As I rummage in my flight bag at the base of my feet, I come across an unfamiliar book. It is the book Mike and I had discussed over dinner one night – The Lovely Bones. Inside the front cover he has written a message:
“A sad story Becks, but hope exists. Take all care, Michael. x.
I was to discover the irony a few weeks on that this story was also long and heart-wrenching good bye of a different, but equally futile, kind. I cried for its beauty, its loss and its hope.
As I sit like a patient in my straight-backed seat, I watch the horizon rise up and then drop out of view as our plane leaves the world behind - that world behind.
We bank to the right, and the curve of Sydney Harbour raises an eyebrow, before sinking down into the depths of the Pacific Ocean. I turn to my left and switch on the monitor embedded in the headrest in front of me. Leaving my earphones off I flick aimlessly through the channels until the World News subtitles catch my attention.
>>>Massive hurricane hits the south coast of America. City of New Orleans destroyed in its wake<<<
In a skip of a heartbeat at the shocking news the irony is not lost on me, and I shiver at the sardonic cycle. Could there be another girl sitting on a coach heading to Memphis. Or perhaps another me? I turn back to the porthole window once more to gaze out at the blue. In a cloudless sky droplets gather on my window-pane, but this time my eyes stay dry. If this is full circle, and I am back on the same plein I visited twelve years ago, then the lesson I failed to see the first time around is now my swaddling, my coat of armour.
It is my time to move on.
With a smile, my body relaxes and contentment runs through my veins. As I take off my heels slowly tap together one, two, three times, and in the faintest whisper I mouth the words,
“There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home.”
Looking within my soul, I embrace my future.
Cells divide.
Kick kick.
Patter patter.
Our flights were changed, brought forward by a full week. Down £100, the revelation hit that I had indeed come this far to say goodbye. As my son slept soothed by the sound of the waves I cried for the loss of my most treasured friend, my precious love, my security blanket for oh so long… and our legend. Like watching a terminally ill friend die, I knew what I had to do. I had to say goodbye and like a baby I wept and moaned that my fate should dictate this. I did not want to accept nor acknowledge the inevitable. I didn’t want to be alone. I had grown accustomed to the shadow he cast over my life. Just as some people cannot cope when they are cured from a terrible and chronic illness, so I felt desperate at the loss of the devil I knew. The infliction I had nursed for so long could no longer be my identity, my excuse or my shield.
With each wave the ocean washed away the salty tears that fell behind my sunglasses. My son slept on.
….
…the beach house last night
I could kiss his lips and nuzzle in the nape of his neck and travel in time.
Whether it was the familiar smell of warmth, sweat, deodorant, cigarettes and alcohol mingling - or that indeed my body and my soul once again remembered its soulmate, its playmate - I was back where once we had been before. Each and every encounter those two bodies had shared over a lifetime; lifetimes, were connected, and could be recalled in my memory as clear and with a clarity that would shrink time and bridge plains, projecting me back to that moment: New York on our first adventure, London, as we sunk deeper, or the desperation of Australia.
…
I realized at once that we could not, and could never, survive the drudgery of daily life together. We were adrift in that world and could not express ourselves, nor relate to one another over who does the dishes, who cooks the meal, or a cautionary “might be late in from work”. We could only ‘play’ house and we knew it. The life and breath we shared existed in the escape, the lost weekend and the retreat. Living there, inhabiting that space we were fucking great. Everything harmonized. It was no-ones turn, it just was. Intense love-making swam fluidly into table-setting. Food appeared joyously and decadently scrumptious. A game of hoopla, full of competitive vigor, sank into a beckoning to the veranda to spot a kookaburra, cockatoo or parakeet. He surfed and I sat, he slept and I wrote, I talked and he listened, he spoke and I knew. It just was. But you couldn’t bottle it and take it home. It had a voracious appetite for the elicit and the exclusive and detested routine and responsibility. Given time it would destroy us. It had to be quelled.
It had to be quelled.
On our last night we wrote endless lists – living wills if you like – of books to read, albums to buy and films to watch. Even recipes. If we were saying goodbye we still had a lot to share. Like packing clothes for a long journey, the lists were carefully constructed to provide maximum value.
End lines.
We roll through the departure gate, eyes ahead traveling in one direction. “Where’s Michael gone?” Louis asks over and over. Ignoring my replies his words seem more a mantra than an enquiry. “He’s gone Louis. We said goodbye to him, didn’t we. Just you and me now, Louis and Mummy.”
As I fill the seat pockets in front of me with essential items, I turn to see if Louis needs a book or his stickers. He has gone: Drifted into oblivion. Head tilted to one side with the back of his hand resting against my leg; seeking the warmth beneath my jeans.
As I rummage in my flight bag at the base of my feet, I come across an unfamiliar book. It is the book Mike and I had discussed over dinner one night – The Lovely Bones. Inside the front cover he has written a message:
“A sad story Becks, but hope exists. Take all care, Michael. x.
I was to discover the irony a few weeks on that this story was also long and heart-wrenching good bye of a different, but equally futile, kind. I cried for its beauty, its loss and its hope.
As I sit like a patient in my straight-backed seat, I watch the horizon rise up and then drop out of view as our plane leaves the world behind - that world behind.
We bank to the right, and the curve of Sydney Harbour raises an eyebrow, before sinking down into the depths of the Pacific Ocean. I turn to my left and switch on the monitor embedded in the headrest in front of me. Leaving my earphones off I flick aimlessly through the channels until the World News subtitles catch my attention.
>>>Massive hurricane hits the south coast of America. City of New Orleans destroyed in its wake<<<
In a skip of a heartbeat at the shocking news the irony is not lost on me, and I shiver at the sardonic cycle. Could there be another girl sitting on a coach heading to Memphis. Or perhaps another me? I turn back to the porthole window once more to gaze out at the blue. In a cloudless sky droplets gather on my window-pane, but this time my eyes stay dry. If this is full circle, and I am back on the same plein I visited twelve years ago, then the lesson I failed to see the first time around is now my swaddling, my coat of armour.
It is my time to move on.
With a smile, my body relaxes and contentment runs through my veins. As I take off my heels slowly tap together one, two, three times, and in the faintest whisper I mouth the words,
“There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home.”
Looking within my soul, I embrace my future.
Cells divide.
Kick kick.
Patter patter.
posted by Rebecca Valentine at 3:20 pm
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