Shall we take a breath? Because it’s hard, this memoir business, and what happened yesterday and twenty-six years ago, was painful. A man died on my wedding day and we never talked about it, Angel man and me, at least I don’t remember we did, not how I would now when something scarring like that happens. I know we were in shock but we were also young and without the tools and wherewithal to understand that taking a breath is vital. Without it, it’s impossible to know where to go next, without it one just stumbles on which is what we did, to Mull. But wait, before we go I want to say this; that writing a memoir is like pulling out thorns one by one. I didn’t know it when I began - like starting a commune or building a stone circle or getting married in a wood, I started by accident of idea unthought out yet every morning I wake at five and I write and thorns work their way to the surface. All sorts of friends have come forward to lend a hand and pliers; yesterday the Dakini goddess wrote to say how angry she was at the time when she heard of his death and it was another thorn removed. I had never heard her say that. But a man died leaving a wife and two children and they deserved more than an announcement in a wood, a pain unspoken, a party carried on; I didn’t know that my new husband was crushed by the grief inside, he had such a gift for holding everything lightly I mistook it for not caring. I didn’t know how to take a breath but I am taking one now. It was terrible. I have cried. Yet twenty-six years ago we headed off on honeymoon to Mull, to the house of a friend who told me yesterday he’d missed our wedding on strict instructions from another friend to get the house ready for us, sorry about that, and we spent ten days or so up there in that beautiful place, Scotland in my blood, but I don’t remember much. I remember the train journey. I remember sitting on opposite sides of the carriage. I remember not speaking.
Discussion about this post
No posts
A shell and a shroud
The bride is covered outside
the groom exposed concave
Arms reach out to bring in the hidden.
Oh silence so loud under foot, over tracks.
Action of youth, the thoughts looking back.