Having just stumbled upon the Facebook post preceding this one – I briefly before bed take some time. I remain so pissed off at the struggle through the mire of the shattering loss. 2 years since Izzy ran off into the Forest and died. The week before he went he was singing with a voice that was ricer and fuller even than usual. He sand a lot around our home and had a mass of plans for what we would be doing next.
Then it smashed. I stood beside his body in the dirt of the forest road and a “myriad” ( yes Iz – an actual myriad my dear Pedant) of thoughts stabbed and sliced through me like shards – another of your favourite words. Gone. I KNEW YOU WERE GONE. LYING THERE WITH YOUR MOUTH OPEN AND THE INJURY to your forehead. And the thoughts ricocheted and flicked at me. IT IS OVER. IT IS ALL DONE. Everything was gone. The music. The Travel. The lying in bed at night and taking you by surprise when I told you I loved you, Iz.
I haven’t had a sane day since. But I reckon people expect me to. Within 2 months I was in the Coma and critically ill and now 2 years on – terminally ill from this damned virus and screwed.
Ah. Ah. This is major league. This is beyond anything I have ever known. I ride around this small town and am ghost haunted. Just ghosts.
Then some nitwit of a real estate agent brings her sneer in and says we must do something about the cobwebs. Yes – allow this deadly arachnid out , you Nutter. Let it pierce your heart and leave you to writhe.
And they want me to care about anything. Anything at all. About what I eat or wear or exercise. I am being consumed here. I care not.
So – briefly – before bed – I didn’t even get left with what I could do before I met you, Iz. Everything we built up has also gone. Cars and caravan and musical gear and all your writing and work and diaries.
And when I think of getting well enough to not need to sleep so much – a horror comes upon me. What in the name of God would I do with more hours in a day ?