My confession.

old-woman-praying11-930x300

I am guilty.

It is not your normal, regular, run-of-the-mill, kind of guilt.

This is far, far more…incomprehensible. One, which is as impossible to escape from, as it was to have been entrapped within.

You see, I loved him.

Once.

That once, now seems so long ago it never truly belonged to me; which in all reality I do not suppose it did.

All I had, as you may have now, is the belief life would keep its promise.

I never asked for anything more than was possible; I never asked for the fairy-tale ‘happily-ever-after’.

I was not so foolish to think such things exist.

But, I did want it to last longer.

Yet still he has been taken from me, inexorably, imperceptibly, little by little, piece by piece; until there is nothing left but a thin parchment of skin hanging onto a frame of crumbling bones.

My love is in mourning for this body’s previous tenant, the man who was part of me, of who I am, my husband, my lover, my best friend.

I fear each day that passes I should forget his voice, of how his hands once held me firm. I fear of losing the sound of his laughter, the remembrance of deeply breathing in his scent. These things are only with me now as past memory. 

I worry they too will be stolen from me, now someone else is living in his body.

I feel nothing for this interloper. I do not know him. I have never known him and have no wish to know him. That is why there is a distance between us, one which stretches much farther than the few inches apparent to the casual observer.

Yet there are social expectations which I must meet. So, I simply ‘go through the motions’, to satisfy the anticipations of others.

This is the guilt I carry, the burden which weighs heavily upon my soul, a guilt I have no way to assuage.

This is my confession.

.

© Paul White 2017

Ssff/050317/315L

Lavinia

58elders1209a
My first sharing short for 2017
Enjoy x.

Lavinia

Her name was Lavinia. She was tall and slim, or dare I say thin?
I ask because I am no longer sure if that word is an acceptable term today.
Yesterday ‘thin’ was fine; you could say thin without heads snapping to look at you with sneers of derision plastered upon them.
Even ‘skinny’ was allowed if used in the right context, say when describing the ‘cut’ of a denim jean or milk in a café latte.
I am never sure which words are in fashion, in season, which have been cast aside or banished. I am not ‘with it’ any longer, or so it seems.

However, I wander far from the main thread of this tale; a tale about an elegant woman named Lavinia, who I saw frequently working out at my gymnasium.
Such an unusual presence was Lavinia, as she ran on the treadmill or pumped away on the cross-trainer, in comparison that is to all the other people there.

Long before I introduced myself, long before I knew her name, Lavinia fascinated me. Clearly, she was not a ‘spring-chicken’. I guessed she was aged late sixties, possible early seventies. Yet here she was, several times a week, working out and putting many of the younger folk to shame.

Then again that should be no surprise, because many of the regular visitors to this gym were not here to follow any physical fitness routine. Many, mostly the younger women and several young men, used the gym as a place of preening and for posing.
I found their pretentiousness posturing and outright displays of vanity rather entertaining. Watching them often helped while away the time when working up a good sweat during a training session.

Now, back to Lavinia.
One day she was on a treadmill next to my own. I could not help but occasionally glance at her. She always looked so neat, so prim and proper and she had a certain air, one of elegance and athleticism combined.

I asked “Are you a dancer?”

She replied with a question “Why do you ask?”

I thought I detected the slightest of blushes.
“The way you move your hands, the way you hold them when you bend”.

She smiled; bright, kindly, understanding and motherly all at the same time, but not with a slightest hint of patronisation.
“I have studied dance” she said, “a long time ago”.

I worried myself, afraid I had embarrassed her and tried not to watch her after that conversation. But she was so poised, so collected and unself-conscious it was impossible not to occasionally glance her way.
It sounds stupid for a mature man, a man of my age, but I never worked up the courage to speak to her again.

I think I was looking for an excuse to start a conversation, a reason to say something, something I thought would not sound pathetic.
Each time I found something I could say, another part of me said I was being foolish, that she would most probably dismiss me if not laugh at me.

Then Lavinia missed a few of her regular sessions.
I asked the staff if they knew the reason that she was not as regular. I was answered with shrugs and a shake of the head.
Even if they knew, they said, it was against company policy to divulge any information about any client.
Fair play I suppose.

After a while Lavinia stopped coming to the gym altogether.
I asked around, speaking with some of the other women I had seen her associating with.

It seems she was a widow and the gym was her way of coping with grief. She wanted to meet people, to make new friends.

Could I have been one of those friends if I had not been so shy?

I shall never know, because I was informed that Lavinia died alone and lonely in her small flat.

It seems few people spoke more than the obligatory, almost necessary, ‘passing words’.

Or maybe they, like myself, are just as lonely as Lavinia, yet too afraid to venture beyond the fear of rejection?

Perhaps we shall never know, until it is too late?

SS010117/701Per?
© Paul White 2017

Such is life.

 

Life flows past, a river of time, ever changing but constant.

Caught in its current as it pushes onwards, we cannot fight against it. All we can do is get by, survive until the next day.

I consider it a bonus to wake, to see the sun, hear the birds singing and to feel the wind on my skin once again.

I consider it magical to find friends along the way, as I am washed relentlessly downstream, towards the oceans of oblivion.

Such is life; my life anyway.

Perhaps, by some miracle or off-chance, I may have fallen into another river, a gentle stream or a babbling brook. Life may have been different.

Or maybe it will change or alter. Maybe a current will pull me to the bank, a gentle eddy swirl me to the shore or pour me into a lesser torrent.

Although I doubt it shall; however hard I may wish or pray.

The world is not like that.

In this world you have little control over your existence.

Such is life. Your life.

We have what we are given, all else is but illusion.

Which is why it is important to grasp the simplest of moments, the slightest of chance, however small, however insignificant each may seem at the time.

We should have no regrets for reaching out, for caring, for showing love and affection.

Or for taking the same, accepting the comfort of another’s arms. To be pulled close. To feel warmth and soft tender flesh during those times our hearts and souls ache with longing and unfulfilled dreams.

Accept the little victories over uncontrolled chaos, over life’s unjust consequence.

We have no knowledge of where this river of life will take us, how long we shall ride its currents or where our passage will end.

We know only our journey will be far too short.

The future is not our place of residence.

Ours is the journey.

Unpredictable, uncontrollable and arbitrarily erratic.

Such is life.