Tag: writing

Both feet on the floor and the reality of my day starts.

I didn’t think it was going to be one of those days.  I woke-up with so much energy, but then remember that you are not here.  Where the fuck are you?  It has been like what, three months?   You have been gone for that long.  Three bloody, long months.

My legs are like molasses.  I take steps towards the bathroom, which seem to take me forever.  Finally I arrive, to bask in the bliss of my first morning piss.   I make my way to the kitchen, putting the kettle on, before turning-on my phone.  Yes!  I have messages from you.  But, it’s the same old, same old – you’re having a good time, meeting loads of people, seeing loads of things, blah, blah.  The standard bullshit.  But you still haven’t answered my question, “when are you coming back?  I miss you – things are lonely here without you xx”.  I’ve asked it, over and over, with each message you send.  And each time, I get no response.

Today is Tuesday, Shrink-Tuesday.

I hate the guy.  Not the guy himself, I mustn’t over exaggerate.  What I really hate, is the idea of seeing a shrink.  I’m sure he’d be cool to go out and have a drink with, but as a shrink he sucks.  All shrinks suck. I don’t even want to be here.  I already know what’s wrong with me.  This is the first time we’ve been apart in 15+ years and I’m feeling it, you know.   I’m really feeling it.  I miss you.  I tell the shrink that I’ve received messages from you.  I get that same flat look he always gives me.  Interested, but not so interested.  And each time, he asks me what you said, how I felt about it and what I replied.  But this time, I’ve brought the phone.  That excites him a little, I can see it in his face.  He goes through the messages, and hands it back to me.  ‘So how does her response make you feel?’  I want to punch him right, bang in his gob.  The session’s over.  I ask when he thinks he’ll sign me off to get back to work.  I just need to something to do.  Something to occupy my time.  ‘We’ll see.  Let’s talk about it next week.’

Tuesday turns into Wednesday; Wednesday into Thursday, and days, into days, into days. My daily routine continues.  Wake, piss, coffee, check messages, remain idle.  Saturday rolls around.  Still no news from you.  I have the gruesome twosome over for a visit – your mother and my mother.  All they do is fuss, fuss, fuss.  I’m not sure why they don’t think that I can’t manage the house on my own?  I know you’ll be laughing at that when you read it. No really, they’re alright.  I must admit, I’ve had a rough couple of days, and I’m glad to have their company.  And, for the first time, I’m looking forward to Shrink-Tuesday.  I realise that I’m not coping.  I just need you back.  We go for a ride.  They both insist.  We stop-off for a quick bite to eat at Bernies Café (you love that place). With lunch finished, your mother wants to visit your father’s grave.  You know how much I hate cemeteries.

En route to the cemetery, and within twenty minutes we arrive.  I want to stay in the car, but those two wont’ have it.   ‘You came for fresh air.’  Fresh air yes; to walk among the dead, no – how creepy.  They mean well, so I acquiesce.  We arrive at your father’s grave.   Mum and I, our arms intertwined, watch as your mother, after sitting down on her portable chair, places fresh flowers on his grave.  Your mother is talking him, I can’t hear what she’s saying, but I can still tell that she misses him.  Your mother’s done.  I am more than ready to leave.  As I turn to go, mum pulls me back, ‘Go on David, it would be such a waste if you didn’t say hello.’  I can hear your mum’s voice behind me ‘Hello Janine, we’ve come for a little visit.  And look who I have with me?  David.  David’s come to visit you’.  I hear your name, and I become paralysed.  I want to run but I am unable to move. Mum is now standing in front of me, and like a mother with her child, she takes me in her arms, and slowly turns me around.  My eyes are closed.  I don’t want to see.  But I know they can’t stay closed forever.  I open my eyes, and it’s there.  I can see it – the tombstone.  Mum’s holding onto me, and all I can hear is my silence. Silence and my tears.  There’s so much I want to say.  But I can’t.  It hurts so much, that I can’t speak.  And what could I say that I’ve not said in the past 3 months?  I miss you.  Things are so lonely here without you.  And I just want to know, when you’re coming back.