These muted days

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These muted days

​Your blankets have been hot-washed, tumbled and donated  and your corner of the kitchen is clear and simply a kitchen corner again,  suitable for the storage  of dustpans and brushes, dinner trays  and a box of emergency toys and crayons for the kids.   You were my baby  and I loved you  and I could have sworn fifty times today that you had come trotting shyly into the lounge,  seeking a warm lap  or my abandoned grey shawl to hide in.  Our quiet little opportunist.   My heart will miss your sweetness and the contentment of your sunlit dreams.   The

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The spaces

The spaces

The spaces have long been you. They are still you, but not entirely. There are pinholes of light where once there was only darkness. There is space around the sadness. The thoughts are there, and I cannot resist them, but in letting them be, in letting them churn and wrestle, watching with kind interest as they do, I can practise non-reaction. I don’t have to run to you. I don’t have to beg, or cry, or wish. Though I do wish, still. There was a fog that morning we trudged in silence to the wooden room in the forest. The

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Morning musings

Sometimes the toughest things we face seem to come down to the simplest facts when we say them aloud: I am here and you are there. That is my primary thought today. I am reminded of Charles Bukowski and a quote that I love, but that kicks me in the gut everytime: “I want to be with you.  It’s as simple and as complicated as that.”

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