Last night, I cycled under the blooming lindens in the early evening light, and their lovely smell transported me back to a year ago, when Summer was still a promise, and my life was what I had always wanted it to be. I am still shocked to be here today, bereft and uncomprehending.
I know you’re supposed to look forward, not back, but I cannot help myself, too much has happened way too fast…
Two years ago, I sold my car, organised good-bye parties, and secretly cursed the commuters feigning fascination for their newspapers when they saw me get into a full carriage, my huge bump preceding me, on the morning train to London.
I owned a house, an oh-so-English Victorian cottage, which was small like me, and cute like me – though I hasten to add that I do not look even remotely English or Victorian…
This house had been a safe haven for my son and me since I had moved in, after yet another catastrophe, a couple of weeks before he was born. Then, one clear morning in late July, I locked the house up for the last time, pulled out some weeds from the lavender, and left.
I remember crying most of the way to Gatwick airport, and wondering (briefly) if I was doing the right thing before taking off for my new life in France. Since that day, I have not had the time to properly grieve for the huge chapter of my life that closed with that door.
Part of me wishes I could just go back now, unlock the door and be back into safety, back to life before T, but part of me knows things could never be the same.
Adele – Someone like you: