Trapped, sick, frightened. Running away, turning back, no escape.
It’s a tunnel and we’re hurtling, fast falling, scrabbling for meaning. Into the depths, no light, but realms of darkness, edges of life, remnants of love.
And he sees no hope. He can’t cope and if he can’t cope I have to help them both , even more, even more than now. It’s come to this and it tears him apart. And I see it, right there, before my eyes. The unravelling has begun.
Head in his hands, rough old mans hands, calloused from gardening and sporting and life. Father becoming boy and my stomach twists. He stares at the floor. Broken dreams before us. The clock marks time. Retirement is diluted, watery and flat and caring has become a burden. In health and in sickness, and in sickness, and in sickness.
Restraint was once a virtue. Hard for him to talk. This way, this close, this real. ”Isabelle , I can’t cope”. Broken words from a bitter man. So I have to, somewhere , somehow, I fucking have to.
I wish I could help dearest Isabelle. But all I can do is hurt along with you. S
Sorry.
Cope. You will. It’s all we can do.
You have just articulated every child’s worry – your post fills me with horror, pain and fear, some of which I experienced as recently as February. Coping will soon become your default mode.
OE, Thank you.
UW and Ariel: yes, coping is what I must do, and I do it most of the time, for them . It’s just when I get home and think about how it is going to effect the rest of our lives, mine and theirs , then I start to get frightened.I can’t walk away from it, I couldn’t, but I dislike myself for bemoaning my fate. The change in my mum was so great ( mentally as opposed to the physical damage she suffered) I’m not sure I will ever get over it, but I have to learn to accept it I suppose.
hello isabelle, hugs to you. x
hello marcos, thank you , I could do with some hugs. And thank you for saying such a lovely thing about my poem .