My optimism at arriving in Venice has turned a bit south. I thought by now, by here, I’d be starting to sort things out. But things haven’t changed an inch: it hurts as much as it did that day in June. The ache is heavier and duller but it is still carried around every minute of the day. This winter was going to be so special: our wedding was going to be at Christmas, a Christmas now come and gone. After June I thought I’d never be able to make it one month after and now six have passed. I am shocked at still being alive. The pain of living has not dissipated
Do you remember last Winter my love? The day school ended and we went up into the hills to get a tree for your place? We took a sled and had a riotous time toboganning down every hill we could find. I got a bruise the size of a truck right on my rear fender. The sky was that sort of orange colour you see just before it snows and by the time we’d chosen our tree the flakes had begun to fall. It took ages to find just the right tree. We put mittens on the tops of potentials so that we could narrow it down, and when we ran out of mittens we used our scarves and then our hats. Starting to get cold, we went back to all the trees we had marked to make our final tree choice. We never did find my left mitten. On the way back we stopped off to buy some thread, then had hot rum while stringing popcorn and cranberries. After it was all done, we just sat in the dark holding each other and watching the twinkling lights with childish fascination. Oh man, I’ve got to stop thinking of things like this – I start to lose control and everything gets all blurry. Part of me just wants to let loose, tears and anguish out, but I am terrified of that. What if I can’t stop?
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