You’re pushing on buttons
that I didn’t even know I had.
Some of them, very sore.
Now I have to look at them
and work out whether I should
turn them off,
leave them pressed,
or remove them completely.

There’s this grief
simmering underneath.
Steady and ignorable,
or - boiling and unmistakable.
There’s no going back
but the grief is there.
Tangled grief for two -
husband lost long ago,
and a love that brought me to life.
Grief for my innocent self
that slammed up hard against his
mental illness —
and lost.
I know
the actions I take now
will frame life going forward.
It’s just that, sometimes,
relief from the grief
is so tempting.

My weakness
can be what draws people to me.
So kind, so caring.
The thing is —
nobody wants me to be kind
in spite of myself.
It hurts more for them
if I compromise, smile,
rather than just
ripping the plaster off.

There was silence there,
papered over with effort.
I think you have a
person-sized hole
in your life
to fill.
I have a person-sized wound
to overcome.
It won’t be overcome
by a silence,
papered over with effort.

The day of
warm caresses,
hiking, company, coffee.
And —
memories,
memories,
memories.

And you—
The New.
Seem patient,
attentive.
Genuine.
Me?
Glad to be
seen as me.
Questions, talk
company.
Click your story
into place for me please.
Sketch out the pieces.
I want to see you.

My (ex) mother in law says
She loves me,
she won’t say any more but
worries I’ll miss her boy
one day in the future.
I was his pride and joy.

My mother says
maybe the women of the past
tried harder.
Is there anything to rescue,
women must try harder than men.

I haven’t worried about missing him;
until now.
The relief has felt so liberating.
Relief from that pressure
to carry it all, do it all,
with a smile, without love.
A smile, a gesture, care my way
would have been fuel for a year,
but the silence felt suffocating.

I’d rather love myself
than smile and pretend that I’m loved
by the husband in my bed.
For our kids, for me, I’m better alone.

Now, though,
that worm in my ear.
Will I regret this more next year?
More than the grief of this family broken?

I cannot see that I will.
Joy is breaking through;
but —
What do I do with this worm?