Dear Alex, Living Now.
Lawn mower passes over someone's lawn in the distance, warm sun sets after a rainy day. It sets on another of our evening phone calls. It sets on a life we once lived.
I haven't been able to write much.
I don't know who I write to anymore.
I once wrote to who I thought would be coming back.
I once wrote through pain and heartache and an experience I thought you would sit down, read with me one day…catch up with my version of events.
I write to a stranger.
Someone I have lost in this life.
This is why I barely write at the moment Alex,
Because I write to a fantasy.
I write to a husband I once had, the man I once knew.
And the pain is too great.
I can't record it, I cannot express it, I do my best, my utmost to avoid it.
Only the evening strikes, the sun goes down and the loneliness of the night ensues. An empty bed, bedtime for 4 children conducted by their mummy again.
It is almost that we are all realising something. Lola stayed at her friend's last night. The lovely daddy there makes her come back and want to talk to me. She opens up about all her memories of you in the hospital, before you were whisked away from us. Before her 6-year-old heart was shattered and one of babies lost their daddy. She talks to me, through sobs of the day I told them of your operation, how well she remembers it. I hold our girl, I hold her tight to me, I kiss her blond head and don't let her go, don't let her see the agony in her mummy's eyes.
You left us all Alex.
You didn't choose to, I know.
But I know you are not coming back.