The nights are mine for the crying. Cosseted in the dark, I weep for loss and loneliness, abandoned, alone.
For company, the flickering light of a TV, the radio whispering.
Years pass, the TVs and radios change, but the tears do not.
Childhood gives way to adolescence and adolescence to adulthood.
The sadness remains, my faithful companion. Pure in its pain and wordlessness.
It’s wracking ache returns again and again.
I look upon the cracked watch face, dead upon my wrist. My father’s watch. My watch. I am lost. I am bereaved. Mourning.
I gaze upon the rubber band upon my wrist. My holiday talisman. My idyll. My connection to my heart’s place. A farm and a family. Belonging and craving. Sweat and rubber mingled, speaking of time that no watch could tell. In time it was gone.
In each was a death and a wrenching sense of loss. I had no sense that this was not normal, nor could I explain why this was so. Even if i could there was no-one to share this with.
I wrestled with this inner world as a teenager. Successful, high achieving model student by day, tortured soul by night. Relationships formed brought new insights but no respite. I craved the company of my friends. At times also craved their families.
Arrived Canberra. The taxi to town, place so clean and fresh. This place I remember. We were young, not long married. Memories of naïve expectation mingle with unfulfilled dreams, ignorance and personal struggle.