Strawberries

Everyone is back at school, work, and childminder’s, there are already meals to cook, laundry to fold, homework to check, appointments to make…

Before my inbox comes tumbling down on me, before I get caught again in the insane daily rat-race, I take a minute to sit on the balcony and watch the city lights.

Of the last four months, I am left with no real memories, only flashes of the shock, the searing pain, sinking ever lower from disbelief to crushed hopes, and banging my head against a wall of whys…

I guess my memories must be captured somewhere in this blog, and that anyone reading it would have me down as an unstable nutter, oscillating along a slightly random sinusoid between despair and disbelief. But whilst I cannot bear to look at my older posts yet, it feels like both the amplitude and the frequency of my oscillations have been gradually decreasing over time.

So this must be it, I must be on the way to some kind of recovery… I do not feel happy by any stretch of the imagination, but I can look over the balcony rail without feeling nauseous from how easy it would be to climb over it.

A fleeting image of planting bulbs and tiny strawberry shoots on the balcony crosses my mind, the cold February wind, the bare soil and tears running down my cheeks. Tonight, I can reach into the planter and pluck a ripe strawberry: It tastes surprisingly sweet.

Joan as a policewoman – The magic:

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