Tag: music

57. Time passes, dear reader

Some months ago, not a year, not quite yet, I began to write. I put thumb to phone and let go of things I was holding. I typed at my laptop when I felt the need to release. I sent out, in their strange digital form, these messages in a bottle – albeit floating around the internet rather than bobbing on the beautiful briney sea.

With each one sent I felt a small space in my lungs to breathe a little bit more. Each time I look back on the words I set down I see how far they are away from me now. And how close.

Because the line on which I write takes me forward and back. While I think I’m building, healing, strengthening – and I am indeed doing all of these – I am still grieving and hurting.

It is in strange moments that I find the pop of a memory. Things that I had almost forgotten- or rather things I had not thought about for some time.

Tonight I have been presented with a rack of cd’s that once lived in our home and are now at his. Resentment bubbled briefly as I looked through the titles, some we chose together, some were presents. Some were bloody well mine! But they are still only things. Would it make me feel better to take them? Not really. I only need to ask or mention it, rather than cause an issue and made a fuss.

Music was often a point of difference. I love it, but enjoy peace more. Music isn’t something I “put on” but for me it adds to what I’m doing. For him it was on and to be heard by all. I minded if we were together, a choice inflicted. Now, I hardly play any – although often have the radio on.

But the likes of little thin boxes brought back thoughts of times together. Gigs and parties and holidays when we brought home the soundtrack, having our memento to hold. Those now sit on a shelf. Does he just hear the music? Does the reason for the disc not exist for him or is it just about the tunes?

He’s not here to ask (I have a healthy nice reason for being in his home, by the way! I’m not some weird stalker!) but I don’t think I will.

Some things are better left unsaid.

2. Am I imagining it?

I listen to the radio at work. I’m on my own most of the day and I usually need a distraction of some sorts. BBC London out of preference, if my usual presenters are on. Bit of 6 music, occasionally Radio 4.

You know the usual people of a certain age type stuff – news-ish. bit of music. chat.

But am I imagining it or was all the music about leaving?

Yes I know, I’m being oversensitive. It’s like seeing pregnant bumps when you’ve had a miscarriage. Like I’m tuned in to it. I am going to make an effort not to care. Or keep a count.

And now onto other matters. To tell the next person. His dad, who lives in the bottom half of the house no less. Separate, but not that separate. (I’ve just clocked that the adjective and the verb are spelled the same – what a difference a bit of emphasis makes.) But downstairs we must go, because, now comes the conversations we must have. And to have them without pointing fingers, without getting each person to take a side. And quite frankly, details are nobody’s business right now. And will they help, make each telling easier to hear?

We’ve not been angry for months so there hasn’t been shouting to hear. There hasn’t been floods of tears, things thrown, doors slammed. We have had calm, things done together, even the odd laugh. A recent family wedding where we were the life and soul of the reception. Just back from a holiday which we carefully enjoyed. We have hidden things from ourselves, so there’s no reason for anyone to guess.

But downstairs we must go. Together, for now. To continue the process, and include the others.