Morning Nocturne by Jill Bialosky

I am glad today is dark. No sun. Sky
ribboning with amorphous, complicated
layers. I prefer cumulus on my
morning beach run. What more can we worry
about? Our parents are getting older
and money is running out. The children
are leaving, the new roof is damaged by
rain and rot. I fear the thrashing of the sea
in its unrest, the unforgiving cricket.
But that’s not it. The current is rising.
The dramas are playing out. Perhaps
it’s better to be among these sandpipers
with quick feet dashing out of the surf than
a person who wishes to feel complete.

 

I am glad today is dark. It was raining this morning. Even before my senses awakened, in my hypnopompic state I seemed to sense it. My spirit deemed it appropriate that it would be.

What more can we worry about? It’s been a strange few days, me swinging between feelings of unease, emptiness and confusion, all with ambiguous source. Perhaps it was the prayer I said, hoping it would help alleviate the sadness I was feeling. I was disquieted by how much it worked. I’m not ready for this sort of divine interference. Or perhaps it’s all this deep talking that I’m not used to. Or maybe this is just regular holiday emptiness. I fear the thrashing of the sea in its unrest

But that’s not it. The current is rising. The dramas are playing out. I spoke of them to someone for the first time – my wild, tender dreams. In my silly little fantasies I envision being woken up gently. To have someone like Cosette’s lady all in white, nice to see and soft to touch, rouse me with a gentle hand, whisper my name. I hope that in heaven I will be small-like. Small and hidden away in someone’s arms, in a quiet forest amidst soft petals and a river flowing. Let the other children explore Narnian seas and conquer mountains, but find me amidst the roses, free of thorns.

My confidante smiled and said, so your wish is for the door to be opened softly. I chuckled and said yes. Start with yourself, she told me. You are already reaching out. You say all this, and that it will never really be, but in your heart of hearts you know…

I know? We all hide our most potent secrets from ourselves. I cried uncontrollably after that conversation because I realised for the first time who it was I have been pining for all this while.

So much for all this Freudian self-discovery. I woke up sick and weak and with a whole lot to do. Mum’s gone out and I still don’t know how to reach her. Some force in me tells me to just tuck these silly longings away and let live. Is that how normal people do it? Perhaps it’s better to be among these sandpipers with quick feet dashing out of the surf than a person who wishes to feel complete.

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