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Trudging


I wake up.  It's Saturday.  And she's not here to share the weekend that has yet to happen.

This is now a familiar tape that has been playing out most weekends since September.  There have, of course, been exceptions.  The weekends that I've been away.  Those weekends on which I've had work commitments which have taken me out of London.  The break I spent on the other side of the world over New Year.  These times have felt different.  Saturday mornings in London don't yet feel quite right.

Something occurs to me.  I think to call her.  I reach for my phone, but before I do, I remember.  Again.  And again.  Her number is no longer available.  

I am briefly and repeatedly disorientated.  It feels unfair.  It isn't.  Life isn't.  

I am adjusting.  Grief is a process.  A process that is unfolding.  Sometimes quickly.  Often slowly.  I have no say as to its pace, and little way of knowing its direction.  Healing is a journey.

This wasn't a journey I would have chosen.  Grief is the price we pay for love.  

    
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