A voice message. I hear the sadness, pain and anguish among the words, the breath, the hesitation and fluctuating voice. It is clear. My heart aches to hear it. There is no way to be there, to wrap arms around, to comfort.
A telephone conversation. I hear the deep breath before confession. I hear what I already thought was so. Apologies are unnecessary. I am grateful for the respect this honesty shows. Thank you for the courage you found to speak. I am relieved to find the story I built around lies can be re-constructed with truths.
A text. I see the angry confusion that comes from frustration; witness the retreat. I recognise the reaction, the wounded withdrawal to safety. This is not my family. It is not for me to intervene. My white charger is out to pasture, but I am here if needed.
n.b. The uncertainty seems to be increasing as physical distancing continues. Does anyone know what is happening to us? I write from a place of personal freedom, personal distance, personal isolation. Good days, bad days, happy days and sad.
When I read a book that mentions about going for a drink in a crowded bar, or for a romantic meal in a Paris restaurant; or when I watch a movie where people just move about acting out lives that mean having to be close to others and dealing with the intimacies of existence, I think, ‘Is this how it was, or will be? It doesn’t look or feel right. This is not how it is.‘
Interacting online with everyone is a miracle of technology, but I am tired of it. Everyone is accessible, everyone is removed. What is the game we are playing?