life

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Christmas Comfort

Published December 14, 2020 by Naomi Rettig

Gazing up at the sky on Christmas Eve

I wonder if we see the same stars.

I clasp my hands and imagine it’s you,

Squeezing three times to say I love you.

Physically far yet spiritually near,

When I know you’re here I have no fear.

I chat in my mind and know that you hear.

When I lose my way you guide and steer.

I’m never alone, Christmas and beyond.

Your joy, love, and hope comforts my soul.

The Hair Slide

Published November 28, 2020 by Naomi Rettig

Monica wasn’t superstitious but she knew that her day wasn’t going to run smoothly for a Friday 13th. Having dropped her breakfast, peanut butter on toast, on the floor to be devoured by Jinx the Labrador, catching her finger in the kitchen cupboard, and tripping over a conker on the path outside her house, work at Craven Care Home wasn’t much of an improvement.

‘I’m not sitting by her, she’s a thief.’ Olive’s bony hands rattled her walking frame as she came to a standstill next to the dining table.

Beryl, seated at the table, shook her mop of grey hair. ‘The cheek of her! She’s the thief and a liar!’

‘Ladies please.’ Monica, already used to playing referee to these two after only a few days, was finding it particularly tiresome today. She’d only been on shift for a few hours and was already counting down to being home alone Jinx. ‘Let’s be nice.’

‘I’m not eating with her. I’d rather starve,’ said Olive.

‘Go on then,’ said Beryl. ‘Starve to death.’

Monica was frustrated that these grown up women were acting like toddlers. ‘Mrs McQuillan, come and sit over here.’

She steered Olive towards a table on the opposite side of the dining room and helped her to sit down, placing the walking frame by the side, like a playpen barrier. The dining room was heavy with the smell of cooked cabbage and disinfectant and the noise of pots and pans bashing about overshadowed the smatter of chatter from the residents awaiting their food.

‘She stole my hair slide.’ Olive’s eyes, milky with cataracts, stared at Monica.

Nodding, Monica glanced around the room. ‘I’m sure it will turn up.’ She caught sight of the metal food trolley with the wonky wheel heading their way. ‘Look, Joanne’s coming round with lunch now. Cod and parsley sauce, your favourite.’

‘I hope it’s not lumpy sauce like last week.’ Olive removed her false teeth and plonked them on the table.

Monica watched a globule of spittle slide from denture to table. ‘I’m sure it’ll be lovely.’ She walked away to the small tea room next to the kitchen. She didn’t feel hungry anymore.

Kyla had a coffee waiting on the worktop in the tiny tea room for Monica and stood drinking hers from a mug with the slogan I’m a carer what’s your superpower. ‘Thought we were going to have fisticuffs then.’

Monica grimaced and picked up her mug. ‘Thanks.’ It was a souvenir mug from Cleethorpes. No member of staff was from Cleethorpes or had ever been to Cleethorpes so it was a mystery mug in the staff cupboard that Monica had adopted. ‘I don’t know why they annoy each other so much. Ever since Olive arrived, Beryl has been more cranky than normal.’ She took a big slurp of coffee.

‘Cranky? That’s polite, she’s been a right pain in the ass. It’s not helping that Olive keeps going on about the bloody hair slide.’ Kyla rummaged under the work top and brought out a biscuit tin and yanked off the tight lid. ‘Custard cream or soggy gingernut?’

Monica still had the image of Olive’s saliva coated false teeth in her mind. ‘I’ll pass. Is there a hair slide? I haven’t seen one.’

‘Probably not.’ Kyla shoved a whole custard cream in her mouth. ‘Remember deaf Gordon? Swore blind he had a dog in here.’

Monica laughed. ‘Yes, the imaginary Goldie. Please shoot me if I get like that when I’m old.’

Kyla raised her eyebrows. ‘When?’

‘Cheeky mare, I’m forty-five not eighty.’

‘That’s old to me.’ Kyla reached for another biscuit.

The sounds of a busy canteen mingling with Chris Rea’s Driving Home for Christmas. Monica shook her head. ‘Look, just because you’re young enough to be my…’

‘Daughter.’

‘No, younger sister, doesn’t mean I’m old.’

‘Yeah, whatever,’ said Kyla, brushing some crumbs from the front of her tunic. ‘Have you made it up with your sister yet?’

‘No. Not going to.’ Monica drank some more coffee.

‘But it’s going to be Christmas soon.’

‘And? What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘You don’t wanna be alone on Christmas Day.’

‘I won’t be. I have Jinx.’ Monica faked a cheesy grin, she didn’t want to talk about her sister, it was still too raw.

‘He’s a dog.’

‘Exactly. Loving, loyal and doesn’t betray me. Plus I’ve put my name down for the Christmas Day shift here. I see you’ve got it off, what are your plans?’

‘Staying in bed with our Liam and eating chocolate all day. Probably pop over to his mam’s house for tea when we’ve finished shagging.’

‘Kyla!’

‘What? You could be having that too. I mean, not with our Liam obvs, but if you got yourself another man, a nice one, not like Geoff, he was a prick.’

Monica pictured Kyla’s Liam in bed. It wasn’t a sexy image. The first time she met him he was waiting outside the home for Kyla. He was swigging from a can of supermarket own cider and had a collection of dubious stains decorating his t-shirt. Monica imagined his underwear would be equally, if not more, dubious. ‘I’m happy waking up with Jinx and then spending the day here.’

‘See, senile already.’

‘Thief!’ Olive’s shout echoed through to the tea room.

‘Bloody hell.’ Kyla rammed another custard cream in her mouth and shoved the lid back on the tin.

Brian the odd job man appeared at the doorway holding a sprig of mistletoe. ‘Alright ladies?’ A waft of Brut aftershave entered the room.

Monica put down her empty mug and turned to Kyla. ‘Finish your cuppa, I’ll sort her out.’ She smiled as she watched Kyla take the lid back off the biscuit tin and squeezed herself awkwardly past Brian’s teddy-bear tummy. ‘Sorry Brian, duty calls.’

On entering the dining room her smile slipped away when she saw that Olive had thrown her lunch on the floor and was continuing to shout insults across to Beryl. Joanne the kitchen assistant was swooping in with cloths and a mop. Monica, being careful not to slide in the lumpy parsley sauce, escorted the still shouting Olive to her room.

Olive flopped down into the wipe clean faux leather chair. The bedroom was generic beige with white plastic blinds at the window. A painting of a lavender field was above her bed. ‘She’s stolen my hair slide. I don’t want her here.’

‘Well she has to stay here, her old care home has closed down.’

‘I don’t want her here.’

Monica sat on the end of the bed facing Olive. ‘Now come on, don’t get yourself all upset. I’m sure if you got to know her you could be good friends.’

‘I don’t want to be friends with someone like her.’ Olive turned her head and stared out of the window, grinding her gums together in a gurning grimace.

‘OK.’ Monica hoped that Olive’s teeth hadn’t been swept into the bin. Retrieving gunky dentures from the rubbish wasn’t a thought she relished. ‘Well, have a little rest here and try to calm yourself down. Getting upset like this isn’t good for your blood pressure is it?’

Olive ignored her and carried on staring.

Monica stood up and smoothed the bed down where she’d been sitting. ‘Anything you need before I go?’ When no answer came she turned to leave the room.

‘Forgiveness.’

Monica stopped at the door, turning back towards Olive. ‘Forgiveness?’ She waited for an answer but Olive just continued to stare out of the window. ‘Don’t worry about the broken plate lovely.’

When a reply still didn’t come Monica left to go and find the false teeth.

Olive closed her eyes for the last time..

Monica showed the funeral directors out and walked back to Olive’s room. She always felt sad having to bag up belongings of patients with no next of kin. Throwing treasured items into the trash always seemed so tragic to her. Lost in her thoughts she was startled when entering the room. There in Olive’s chair sat Beryl. For a split second Monica thought it was Olive.

She placed her hand on her chest and exhaled deeply. ‘What are you doing in here Beryl?’

Beryl was staring at the empty bed. ‘Forgiveness.’

Monica had started to walk towards Beryl but stopped dead. Déjà vu prickled through her body. ‘Sorry?’

‘Forgiveness. Looking for forgiveness.’ Beryl was still, her eyes unmoving from the sterile bed.

Monica glanced down to Beryl’s lap as a sparkle caught her eye. A hair slide of marquisate and silver was being slowly twiddled between Beryl’s fingers. ‘Is that Olive’s hair slide?’

Beryl’s looked down at the hair slide and nodded.

‘You took it?’

Beryl nodded again. ‘Yes.’ Tears leaked down the wrinkles on her face. ‘I’m sorry.’

Monica sat on the corner of the bed, just as she’d done with Olive on that last time with her. ‘It’s ok.’

Beryl smudged her tears away with her hand. ‘I wanted to take something of hers.’

‘Why?’

‘She stole from me. I wanted her to know how that felt.’ Beryl stared at the hair slide.

‘I’m confused now. What did she steal from you?’

‘Bill.’

Monica hoped this wasn’t another imaginary dog situation. ‘Bill?’

‘Bill was my fiancé.’

Monica would have preferred an imaginary dog, they were more easier to deal with than betrayal. She tried not to think of her ex-fiancé Geoff but his face launched into her mind evoking emotions she didn’t want to deal with. She focussed her attention back to Beryl. ‘When was this?’

‘When I was nineteen.’

Monica did the maths. ‘You knew Olive sixty-seven years ago?’

Beryl nodded again and let out a sigh. ‘She stole him from me and married him. He was my fiancé and she stole him.’ She turned her head and looked out the window. The rain was running down the glass in crinkled lines. In her reflection the rain appeared like tears navigating her wrinkles.

‘Were you friends then?’ Monica leaned forward slightly when Beryl didn’t answer. ‘All those years ago?’

Beryl carried on watching the rain. ‘No. We were sisters.’

Monica sat upright, she was confused, or thought maybe Beryl was confused.  ‘Olive said she had no next of kin. I knew she was a widow but I didn’t know she had you.’

‘She didn’t.’ Beryl turned to face Monica. ‘I stopped talking to her when she married my Bill, when she stole the life I should’ve had.’

Monica frowned. ‘But she was a young widow. She told me her husband had died six months after they were married.’

Beryl stopped twirling the hair slide between her fingers and her eyes widened.

‘You didn’t know that?’

‘No.’ Beryl swallowed hard. She closed her eyes and exhaled deeply.

Monica’s pulse was increasing and her mouth was dry. She was wishing she hadn’t delivered that news and was concerned that Beryl was going to go the same way and in the same chair as her sister. She was relieved when Beryl opened her eyes.

‘I left the country after their wedding.’ Beryl stared at the now unmoving hair slide in her hands. ‘I moved to France. I couldn’t bear to watch them live a happy life. They were both dead to me from that day.’ She started to cry silently and closed her eyes.

Monica leaned forward and placed her hand on Beryl’s. Monica thought of her own sister and their falling out. She made a promise to herself to drive over to Amanda’s straight after work, before she could have time to talk herself out of it. She didn’t want to be bitter and resentful. She needed to forgive, to move on. She didn’t want to become Beryl.

Beryl let go of the hair slide and held Monica’s hand. The distant sound of carols echoed gently through the corridors of the care home. Beryl squeezed Monica’s hand and Monica squeezed back. They sat in silence and the hair slide slid to the floor.

Lockdown

Published April 13, 2020 by Naomi Rettig

Day 21
I don’t know why I’m writing this and I don’t know who I think will read it but I feel I must write something down in case something happens to me. I’m scared. Maybe I’ll be less scared if I keep a journal, I might read it back and say ‘Kelly you’re just being silly’. I have about thirty minutes a day to myself while he has a bath so I’ll write then.
This lockdown is making everyone stir crazy so I can’t blame him for what he does. It’s being stuck in here with me day after day, that’s enough to test the patience of anyone he says. I’ll hide this little notebook in the drawer with my sanitary towels, he never searches through that as he thinks it’s disgusting. I wish he wouldn’t say that. I wish we could be the way we used to be, at the start. I love him.

Day 22
He hit my face today. He’s never done that before. I guess with me not going out he’s not worried about anyone seeing the bruises. It’s always been my legs, stomach, back and arms, but today it feels like the first time. He loves me and he’s sorry. He’s always sorry. He says I make him hurt me. I wish I could make him happy. I’m frightened. I love him.

Day 23
More hits to my face today. I feel ashamed. I looked in the mirror and I felt ashamed. I’m trying my best but I don’t understand what I did wrong today. He said I looked ugly and I’d let myself go so maybe that’s why he was upset with me. My ribs are hurting too. I feel sick and don’t feel like eating. I’ll cook a roast tomorrow, he loves a roast dinner. I love him.

Day 24
The dinner wasn’t hot enough today so I had to eat mine off the floor, even though I wasn’t hungry. It was difficult to swallow it down with his foot on the back of my neck and while I was crying. I tried to stop crying as this just made him madder but I couldn’t. I try my best to be a good wife but I don’t know what to do. I cried when he made love to me. I love him.

Day 25
I’ve got cystitis. He couldn’t go to the chemist as there are too many sick people out there and I’d be endangering him so I asked if he could order something online but he told me that would be a waste of money. I complain too much. I didn’t want sex this morning but I didn’t complain. I love him.

Day 26
I don’t recognise myself. He shaved my head. There was a hair in his food so he shaved my head. I have black and bloodshot eyes, and no hair. I look disgusting. He’s right, no one else would want me. I don’t know what to do. I nearly phoned his mum but when I called her in September she told me that he was my husband and what did I expect. She would say the same now. I’m scared but I love him.

Day 27
I don’t think I can take much more, I can’t even bare to write down what he did to me last night. How can he love me and do that? I don’t know what to do. His family won’t help me, I’m not allowed to leave during this quarantine and even if I was I wouldn’t have anywhere to go. I haven’t spoken to my friends or family in so long, I wouldn’t know what to say. He says they all hate me anyway. I don’t want to cause problems for anyone else. I’m a disappointment to everyone. I’m going to try and search on his laptop for a refuge or someone I can talk to. I’ve got the landline but I don’t know any numbers, only 999 but it’s not an emergency. I don’t want to cause a fuss. I’ll wait for him to have his bath tomorrow and I’ll find a number. I’ll get help.

Day 29
Can hardly write. Think hands broken. Forgot to delete history. Made him so angry. Chest hurts. Everything hurts. Can’t see left eye. Phone ripped out. Laptop smashed up with my head. Got to get out. He’ll kill me if I stay. I’ll leave tomorrow bath time. Don’t know where. Need sleep now. Maybe I deserve this. Need help. He needs help. I love him. Why?

*****

(According to the Office of National Statistics about 4.2% of men and 7.9% of women suffered domestic abuse in England and Wales during 2018. This equates to about 685,000 male victims and 1,300,000 women. Murders related to domestic violence are at a five year high.
One in four women and one in six men will be affected by domestic abuse during their lives. On average 104 women and 30 men are murdered every year in England and Wales due to domestic violence.
On average domestic abuse victims will have been assaulted 68 times before reporting it to the police.)

National Domestic Abuse Helpline 0808 2000 247

Men’s Advice Line 0808 801 0327

My Cat Wants to Kill Me

Published March 29, 2020 by Naomi Rettig

My cat wants to kill me,
I know this is true.
He’s been plotting a while now,
His plans are not new.

He leapt on my shoulders
At the top of the stair,
Dug his claws in my neck
And mauled me like a bear.

I survived the steep fall
And he slunk away
Thinking of more evil ways
To get rid of his prey.

He opened my fridge
Threw up in my butter,
‘I hate you human’
I heard him mutter.

He pooped in my shoe
Just before I went out.
It was still warm and sticky,
My heart nearly gave out.

He smothered my face
While I tried to sleep,
Gasping for breath
I started to weep.

He lay under my bed
Waiting for my feet.
I walked past at speed
He pounced at fresh meat.

He drew blood with his claws
And sent me flying,
Now he’s licking his balls
While I lie here dying.

Derek the Pineapple

Published March 25, 2020 by Naomi Rettig

I used to be a pineapple, called Derek. But now I’m a human called Dave. Oh how I wish I’d stayed a pineapple, life was much more uncomplicated back then. Be a human they said, it’ll be fun they said. So I put my reincarnation request in. They lied. It’s much better to be a pineapple, oh how I miss those tropical days and balmy nights. Soaking in sunshine, growing and glowing with golden sweet juiciness, hanging out with other pineapples, chatting, laughing, sharing jokes and dreams. Magical underestimated days.

Being a pineapple is stress free. Being a human is not. Being human is complicated and not easy to grasp, I think it would take a couple of reincarnations to master it. I don’t want to try again. Pineapples, we’re easy, we’re all the same, humans come in different shapes, sizes, colours, religions, sexes, classes, intellects, emotions. Pineapples are pineapples. Pure love and enjoyment. I’m going to request to be a pineapple again. Or a mango. I knew a mango, Michael. He was cool.

Margaret

Published November 19, 2019 by Naomi Rettig

For the first time ever, Margaret severed a head. Not just any head, the head of her husband. Her now ex-husband. She was surprised how easy it was, considering she hadn’t meant to decapitate him. Her upper arm strength and swing action had shocked both her and Eddie. His face, suspended in petrified disbelief, gawked up from the blood sodden rug. Margaret watched how the crimson fluid delicately shaded the peonies in the pattern. She sat in the armchair, breathing heavily, and dropped the axe to the floor with a dull thud. Sinking back into the tatty brown leather she allowed herself to smile. Which turned to laughter. Followed by docker swearing at the unresponsive head.

She jerked her leg out and kicked the headless torso. She laughed again. With her breathing more controlled she stood and rolled the body onto its back. She kicked it hard between the legs.

‘You won’t be forcing anyone now will you.’

Margaret kicked Eddie’s torso again, with more force, but it was like kicking a sandbag. She stared at the lump of a husband and then sat back down, closed her eyes, and exhaled deeply, using the breathing techniques she’d learnt in counselling sessions. She could hear her therapist Lynne telling her to inhale for five then exhale for eight.

She obeyed Lynne’s voice. She felt calm. She thought back to meeting Lynne, and that timid frightened wren that she once was, scared of everything and Eddie, especially Eddie. Margaret didn’t think she’d be able to tell anyone about what Eddie did to her but she did and Lynne gave her tools to make her stronger. To rebuild herself.

Eddie had been such a charmer when Margaret had met him at the butchers counter when she was sixteen. He was handsome, funny, popular, and twenty-two, he could have had the pick of the village but he chose her. She felt so lucky. She would have done anything to keep him, and she did. Anything he wanted, he got, whether Margaret wanted it or not. Usually not.

Margaret had thought about ending her life many times to escape, a desperate solution for a desperate woman. Her daughter Lucy had made her think of other options. She couldn’t leave her with him, she’d already seen the way he was starting to look at her. She knew that as her own figure became less appealing Lucy was blossoming, and that’s what scared her the most, made her want to fight back, escape from her tormentor who was once her hero.

Life hadn’t changed overnight. Like mould it had started as small spores sparsely spaced and had spread slowly until she found it too hard to breathe. The young virile heartthrob evolved into an overweight lazy bully, the bright optimistic butterfly became cocooned. One-off demeaning comments developed into daily vitriol, the odd slap matured into routine beatings.

Margaret opened her eyes. She stared at the mess in front of her and glanced at the clock. It would be a few hours before Lucy came home from school. Plenty of time to clean up, she wasn’t going to risk jail for him. He wasn’t worth it. She’d wasted too many years on him already.

She’d pack a suitcase with his favourite clothes and passport and bury them in the garden with him. He used to tell anyone down the pub that she was a useless wife and he was going to leave her, well, now he had. A jolt of euphoric relief pulsed through her, she stood up and made her way to the garage to locate the spade, stamping on Eddie’s genitals on the way past.

‘No more Eddie, no more.’

Eurovision. My Top Three.

Published May 11, 2019 by Naomi Rettig

1. Iceland. Hatati, Hatrid mun sigra.
Mattius has the perfectly chiselled features of an angel, with the voice of a hellhound chewing razor blades. If the Kurgan from Highlander was singing, this is what he’d sound like. I love this but I think this song is a Marmite song, love it or hate it but no bland on the fence opinion. If you don’t like a shouty vocal the song is available to download as the karaoke version, just the music and Klemens singing the higher chorus. Their stage outfits are outrageously fabulous. Cyber punk bondage. This has outraged a few people, which quite frankly is ridiculous, how can you be outraged by the human body in wipe clean PVC. I think the staging would work better with more nudity myself!

2. Azerbaijan. Chingiz, Truth.
This is a catchy pop tune that stays in my head long after hearing it, in a good way. Great vocals, and a great video (even though I’m not judging it on that). It makes me shimmy (in private) and I’m now often singing part of the chorus ‘just shut up about it’ in my head when people annoy me. That’s quite a lot.

3. Norway. Keiino, Spirit in the Sky.
The three singers’ voices compliment each other well. When I sing and dance the routine myself I play all three roles, and while I love being Alexandra and Tom it’s when I’m singing and dancing to Fred’s bits that I’m my most bouncy. It’s fun, uplifting, and full of energy. Keiino performing it that is, not me.

Other songs I like that didn’t quite make my top three are San Marino, Switzerland, Australia, Finland, Cyprus, Estonia, and Spain. But they made it to my top ten. Bring on Eurovision!

Mine

Published April 30, 2019 by Naomi Rettig

You’re my special someone ‘til the end of time,
My gin and tonic to my splash of lime.
You’re my small umbrella in my exotic cocktail,
My refreshing breeze propelling my sail.
You’re my reason to wake with a smile on my face,
My obedient pet to hug and embrace.
You’re my sparkling star in the darkest of night,
My shining beacon and my guiding light.
You’re my positive thought snuggling in my head,
My freshly washed sheets straddling across my bed.
You’re my motivation for living life true,
My excitement for starting over anew.
You’re my obsession, possession, lover for life,
My soul companion during the afterlife.
You’re my morning coffee, that shot of caffeine,
My wonderful servant, and I am your Queen.

Suggestions for my Doctor’s surgery suggestion box

Published February 17, 2019 by Naomi Rettig

Sat waiting for my diabetic review at the doctors, and waiting, and waiting, I spot their suggestion box. So after nearly an hour past my appointment time I thought I’d amuse myself. The following is what will greet the practice manager when she opens the suggestion box.

1. The waiting room needs to be renamed ‘The Executive Lounge’ for starters. Calling it the waiting room is setting the scene for misery and gloom and low expectations. It would be more uplifting to be told ‘take a seat in the executive lounge’ when you check in.

2. When using the self-service check in system it can leave an anxious patient anxious when they sit down, wondering if they completed all the stages correctly. I suggest the machine be programmed with a fanfare to be played loudly if completed correctly. Maybe a burst of confetti for the 100th correct user.

3. The waiting room/executive lounge can get quite tedious when waiting for any length of time. Even though your information slides are informative they are mind numbingly boring on repeat for an hour. I realise a TV licence is an extravagant expense, and fraught with its own problems (I might want to watch This Morning, another patient might prefer Homes Under the Hammer) so how about hiring out mini DVD players with headphones for a small fee. You could profit from patients’ boredom and patients would be less cranky if kept waiting. If not DVD players, then how about just headphones for hire with a selection of music. Patients could have their own little silent discos or classical calm. Music therapy. The headphones could vibrate when the patient is called through, but if I’m jiggling to a bouncy track I would leave them on while sashaying along the corridor.

4. Heated flooring in the nurse’s rooms would be lovely. When you have to take your shoes and socks off for diabetic foot testing it can be a bit chilly in winter. This isn’t a diva request, I have dainty, delicate, size 9, diabetic feet. If this is too much expense a fluffy bath mat could be a substitute.

5. Waiting in the executive lounge would be improved with food and drink. I would like coffee but some of the other patients I saw I wouldn’t trust with a hot beverage, so I think you’d have to play it safe with a water cooler. Food wise it would have to be something healthy too, yawn, so maybe fruit and nuts. Maybe just fruit as too many people have nut allergies these days. Actually, scrap this suggestion as an apple and a glass of water sounds too much like a minimalist still life set up.

6. Thinking of painting, a little bit of art therapy in the executive lounge would be good while people wait. But again, having seen a lot of the other patients I wouldn’t trust them with crayons let alone squidgy paint.

7. Lava lamps. Calming and therapeutic. I suggest you have a plethora of lava lamps placed around the executive lounge. The other surgery in town has a fish tank which is calming to watch, except when children tap on the glass, that increases anxiety, of the fish and myself. Thus, lava lamps would be a good distraction for anxious patients, inquisitive children, and people who like watching blobs bob up and down.

I hope these suggestions help.

Leap

Published February 17, 2019 by Naomi Rettig

Sat against this rock I am hidden from the world. Invisible and insignificant.

Facing outwards, I hear the ocean caressing the rocks further below me, I see the lit lighthouse standing proud, alone but confident, defiant against the blackness of the unknown ocean stretching ahead of it.

Facing inland I see couples illuminated by candlelight through the restaurant picture windows, laughing, smiling, touching. I don’t know which I’m more envious of, the people exchanging loving looks, or the ocean full of freedom and hypnotic hope.

I don’t think I’ll ever find anyone to look lovingly at me, to be their whole world in that moment and moments more. I am not worthy of another’s love. Even I don’t love myself so how can I expect it from another. No one could find me special, wonderful, their guiding light. I will never be someone’s lighthouse, someone’s restaurant gazer.

I will be the lone rock sitter, the solo sea starer, the self-placed exile. I long to be with someone special, as much as I long to leap into the ocean, to float away from pain. Maybe I should take that leap, find the lighthouse for me.

Why am I so scared of sitting in that window? The remote sea seems less terrifying to me. I have a blackness within, it spreads and dims my vision. It smothers my clarity at times. At times I don’t know if I’ll leap when my dark secret self swirls deep. The sea speaks to me, it says listen to me, follow me, join me, stay with me.

I close my eyes as wind joins waves in beautiful orchestral crescendos.

Inhaling salted air, I breathe life into me.

Today is not a leap day.