When You Went Away.

When you went away, I felt better. Did you know I went to New York? I knew you were there close by, but you didn’t stay with me. I learnt to run fast, without you pulling on my sleeve, warning me not to ‘over-do’ it. I spent a long summer without you, trying new things, those friends you never liked me seeing, I saw so much of them. I even went camping in a remote location, without phone signal, far from the hospital, without my cognoscenti, with no one on standby to rescue me ‘just in case’. I used to love riding horses, but you made me afraid to put myself at risk. All those years I had longed to feel the leather of a saddle again, to feel the pull of the reins and know I was in control. I was good. I was free. But you never liked horses. Well, guess what, this summer I rode, I kayaked, I ran, I swam alone, I camped, I flew long-haul, I ate wild mussels, I drove everywhere, I rode the Statten Island Ferry, I took my children to unfamiliar places by myself, I rode trains across the country, I got drunk, I lived, I loved hard, I applied for my PhD, I thought about the future. I did not miss you. So why did you come back?

Still, you arrived this morning, and you brought luggage. How long are you staying this time? A day, a week, a month, maybe two. You brought me some bad news, that mole on my arm, you know the one I’ve had since childhood? You think it looks a bit dodgy. And that IBS, I’ve been suffering with for a few months? That could be ovarian cancer. Couldn’t it…? You move so quickly, I barely have time to tell you to please go before you’ve unpacked and settled yourself in. Oh, you brought pyjamas and a book about brain tumours.

I always feel sick when you first come, sick with that awful emptiness that no food seems to quench. And tired, too tired to fight you. Then, after some days, we settle in to our old routine together. You telling me where to go, who to see, which innocuous locations are dangerous, which people are safe. You don’t like going out much, you’re a homebody after all.

My body, is your home.