In Exchange for Fortitude

Writing blindly through tears, I might as well have been playing tap-dance on my keyboard with my fingers. For the first time in my life I wished I didn’t know my way around QWERTY by heart. I wished my fingers needed to search and find one key at a time. I wished I could snail this one away.

For the first time in my life I understood. For the first time in my life I bled inwardly. I tore at my soul in all the anguish and pain. For the first time in my life I listened and I heard. For the first time in my life I mourned.

I pulled at my hair. I wrung my fingers. I worried my hair. I clasped my head. I left my mouth open. I began to spasm. My thoughts contorted. My thinking dissipated. My mind. I knew if I didn’t hold back briefly I’d lose it. And end up mad.

This was it. This was the journey. This was how it happened in the movies. And I’d always been convinced that my own strength would carry me through, that I would have the fortitude to bear the loss. Where was this much talked-about fortitude? I wanted it, and I wanted it now.

I wanted it, not because i needed its aid to bear the loss. I wanted it because I was boiling raging mad. I wanted it to answer to me. How dare fortitude? How dare it? Who told you, fortitude, that I wanted or needed you? I did not want to bear any loss. With or without fortitude. I. DID. NOT.

I always imagined how cool, calm, collected I’d be. If it ever happened to me. I always imagined how I’d be the one to comfort others on behalf of all our losses. I imagined wrong. I didn’t want to be cool and calm. I didn’t want to be collected. I didn’t want to be comforted. I didn’t want to be anyone’s comfort.

I didn’t want to sit in a church, squeezing someone’s hand. I didn’t want to hold a wet hanky in the other. I didn’t want to have bloodshot eyes. I didn’t want to wear Bvlgaris to cover them. I certainly didn’t want to be dressed in black Prada 12/13 for the occasion. I definitely didn’t want these black Louis Vuittons.

I didn’t want anything that meant I had to accept. I didn’t want my brain to process and store the knowledge. I wanted to wake up from a very terrible nightmare, drenched in sweat, grateful that it was just that – a nightmare.

I didn’t want to recollect. I didn’t want to hoard memories, precious few memories. I didn’t want to see the smile I’d ever see again. I didn’t want to hear the voice I’d never hear again. I didn’t want to laugh at the last joke I’d never find funny again. I didn’t want to wish for another trade by ‘banter’ that would never come. I didn’t want to lock up my favourite slippers and never wear them again.

I didn’t want to imagine our stroll down the beach. I didn’t want to imagine our getting two shots short of drunk in the bar. I didn’t want to imagine us staring out at the horizon, lunching in grand fashion. I didn’t want to wonder whether you’d prefer the blue dress to the red one. I didn’t want to imagine the first thing you’d say to me when you woke up the next morning.

I didn’t want to think of getting a new bridesmaid for my wedding. I didn’t want to imagine who would have been so valiant as to finally capture your heart, body and soul. I didn’t want to think about what your kids would have looked like. If they’d have had your nose or your eyes. If they’d have borrowed from your pages of mischief, daring, wit and kind heart. I didn’t want to think how great it would have been to be their godmother.

I didn’t want to dream of you in faraway places, with bright lights and streets made of gold. I didn’t want to dream of you smiling down on me. I didn’t want to dream of you looking like that halo was made just for you. I didn’t want to dream of you being happy and safe and warm.

I didn’t want to shed a tear that wasn’t shed with you. I didn’t want to shed a tear that was shed for you. 

I don’t want to shed a tear that isn’t shed with you. I don’t want to shed a tear that is shed for you.

I just want you back.

Onu’a mourns . . .