Sunday, 13 March 2011


It is a beautiful morning. Warm and rose coloured. I woke with the sun slanting over my eyes and smiled. The birdsong was (and is) jubilant this morning, farewelling the last of Summer as I stretched out in the warmth. I have found myself unable to sleep in, even though it was the objective this weekend and not minding at all.

Yesterday the rain clouds threatened at dawn and the pitter patter of rain on the roof was made for lazy days in bed;yet unable to sleep, curling up with a good book that was rich and tasty, licking the flavour from my lips. The girls made cubby houses outside with bright coloured blankets strung over the table and the hammock and the boy ran through squealing.

He has been snuggly of late, missing me. He clings to me when I am at home, Friday curling up in my lap in a sobbing ball, holding tight around my neck as I sang us both to sleep. Insisting on finding me when something hurts until I can kiss it all better. Burrowing his head into my shoulder when he is tired, tiny hands gripping my shoulders so that I can't let him go as the chubby limbs gradually go limp and heavy. He is so beautiful I don't know how to do much other than snuggle him. I can't be cross when he screams, or when he comes crawling into bed covered with the milo that he has been gleefully scooping into his mouth with his hands.

Yesterday in the afternoon the high level wind had blown all but the most majestic of late afternoon clouds far off into the distance and we scrambled to the park to run and jump and play. Watching the fearless Possum chase the "Duh!" and the Monkey climb to the highest point and pretend to wave a flag. The bright green grass and the breeze pushing through my protective shield and waking me up in spite of myself. It took nearly an hour until I looked up at the sky, and I wonder at why it took so long. The setting sun turning the clouds into gilded chariots racing across the sky; the birds flitting overhead in jealous squabbles over branch position.

I am still not well. I am still not entirely me. But in the triumphant chorus of twilight yesterday afternoon I saw her flickering in the last light on the horizon. The tiniest gleam of gold as the sun gave a last sigh and sank beneath the brilliant sky, pulling up the covers and letting dusk sing her lullaby.

I will overcome this melancholy, as I have overcome it before. I miss the sun, I miss my fire. I miss the dull burn in the base of my heart that could spill forth at any time into my veins. I miss my light and the golden hue my eyes once took when superlatively happy. I miss the other half of me, the spark that kindled.

I miss my Gleam.

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