winter

 The winter wind howls outside. It explores the windows, looking for gaps and fragilities. The temperature drops and I find myself thinking of the stray cat who has become my friend. Where does he hide? Why will he not come inside? What has he been through? We spend a few moments together each day and I feed him. Then it is time for some human interaction… but, you see, most of them are not listening. Most of them don’t care at all. It’s seven weeks since my mother passed away, I miss her each and every day. For others, it seems to be forgotten history. And, I suppose, it is not reasonable for me to expect more than that. I remember the day that my grandmother, my mother’s mother, died. We made it just in time to her bedside. We’d driven from the south of England, where I lived, up to the north, to the town I was born in (the town all of my family had been born in). I walked into the ward first and saw a lady lying in a bed with nurses nearby. I asked the nurses where Winnie was and one of them lifted her hand to her mouth to hide her emotional expression. She pointed to the lady in the bed who I did not recognise and said ‘this is your grandmother, love.’ She had lost a tremendous amount of weight and most of her hair. I saw a large scar on her head that I had never before seen, and it made me feel extremely sad. I later asked my mother what this scar was from, and she explained that my grandmother had been working in a factory at the age of 16 and was hit in the head by a heavy iron hook of some kind as it moved above her whilst she worked. My grandmother couldn’t speak properly at this stage, but it seemed to me that she was repeatedly asking me ‘Where is Meghan?’ Meghan was my wife, but we had just recently separated. My grandmother had been so proud of the fact that I was married. She was very religious and traditional. Later that day, shortly after we left, she died. 

            Death makes one reflect upon all aspects of life. Particularly relationships, family, and love. I love solitude, and yet I am haunted by so many articles and statistics about ‘the loneliness epidemic’. Most of the people that I know do not like being alone at all. In fact, the only person I know who really loves solitude, beside myself, is one of my closest friends in England… and I am grateful for him and the ability to talk to him about these things regularly. And, as much as I love being alone, I feel a sense of sorrow for the suffering I read about, or hear about, that some people experience. This can be especially tragic if it is someone who has arrived in the country chasing ‘the American dream’ only to find themselves isolated, alone, and destitute. Equally tragic is the case of those in horrific and abusive relationships, but unable to escape for a multitude of reasons. Their loneliness is beyond loneliness… it is fear, emptiness, and despair.