Down and still in

Geralds of different ages are visiting, in varied succession, very visibly (to my mind's eye).

The smooth, sweet, unafraid though fearful (depending) boy.
The heavier (in spirit and in body) middle-aged man.
The luminous and beauteous shrunken body and warm humourous spirit of the last days.
The loyal, genuine, unselfish, loving companion.
The laughing youth of 30, carefree and creating.
And so on ...

Moving back into life from trauma. I was pretty sure that would be the hard part.
It is.
The normal travails are the real reminders of the life that has been and gone.

I want to curl up and not.
Not ... try. Not help my children with decisions. Not cope with their failures. Be granted extra time to deal with my own failures. Not help anyone else make sense of things. Be treated gently, allowed all the complexities that no-one needs to decipher but many could imagine. Be given some leeway to express grief in my own aberrant ways.

Too much already.

PS more tears come when a couple of beautifully timed and strongly positive responses to the writing arrive in the mail this morning. This is healing. A splint for the aching being, a crutch, a prop, not to be relied on, but a burst of energy enough to keep walking.
In trail running we call this kind of terrain a highly technical track.

If I could do the trail running, now that would help :-)