How near the surface sadness can be.
Almost anything can bring it out: a glance, an action, a sound, a sight, a remembrance.
For me, today, it was a coin in a charity box held by a lady in a supermarket.
I went to speak to her, struggling with my purse as she smiled, but it was impossible.
And the coin clanked as it hit the bottom of the box,
And pictures flooded into my mind.
And I was in tears before I even walked through the automatic doors.
And I cried in the car park, and on my way out of it, and I cried as a strange-looking old man looked up at me with a fixed smile as though he were remembering a now dead brother.
And I repeated aloud that it was awful, ‘Fucking, fucking awful!’
And I thought I should have sat with her all night before she died,
And I hadn’t, and I felt so guilty about it.
But that night I was too tired to even think of being awake.
But three of us had a meal, and laughed and drank while she lay there dying.
And the next morning she died and I feel so guilty.
It’s as if it was all my fault.
It’s as if because I was there, it was all my fault.
It’s as if because I witnessed it, it was all my fault.
It’s as if because she loved me, it was all my fault.
And I cried until there was no more energy left to bring the tears.
