Disclaimer: Although no names are mentioned, I assure you the POV of this
story is a character created by JKRowling. You should be able to figure
out who's talking.
Loss
I blink rapidly, realizing that I'd read the same page for at least the fifth time. No, that wasn't true. My eyes had rappelled like a mountain climber down the text, hopping from phrase to phrase, indentation to margin, picking up the contours of the print rather than the sense of the words.
"What's the point?" I mutter to myself, tossing the book onto the desk, giving up my scatter-brained attempt to get any work done. I wander aimlessly into the kitchen, not because I'm hungry, but in a vain effort to occupy my mind with tasks to fill up the time. We're low on Pepper-Up Potion and Joint Ache Salve. Simple enough to brew up new batches, if we have all the necessary ingredients. Let's see. While I check on that, I might as well give the pantry a once-over and see if we're were short on other necessities. Perhaps tomorrow I'll go to Diagon Alley to get whatever we need. It'll get me out of the house. Maybe.
A shrill whistling cuts across my thoughts. The water in the kettle is boiling. I find myself gazing out the back window while a cup of tea steeps, noticing that the last blossoms have faded and a thin layer of leaves already carpets the ground. It's time for the autumnal ritual of preparing the gardens for winter. Plus, I'm sure I saw evidence of gnome encroachment. I'll take care of that. Soon.
As I take my tea and sit at the table, I get that nagging feeling of forgetting something. What was I thinking about before starting to worry about the yard? Oh, yes. Supplies and provisions. I should make a list. Later.
I used to have an effortless ability to think about several projects at once. In fact, years ago, I drove my friends mad with my seemingly uncontrolled, antic, gadfly approach to problems. Although I admit that their reactions amused me, I really didn't act that way on purpose. It was simply the way my mind worked. Thinking about one task sometimes released a flash of insight into another. So, I'd jump to the second task while inspiration held, which would then often lead to the third or fourth task. Then I'd pick up whatever I'd been working on originally without skipping a beat. I've never been a particularly linear person.
Can I not concentrate because my lover is away? I don't know. Maybe I feel this disconnection because it's hard for me to be alone. I've been alone for so very long.
Am I like this all the time now? I'm not sure. Is this behavior evidence of another piece of myself that I've lost? Another thread that has frayed and broken, another cog in the machine that has snapped off?
I feel lost sometimes. And what frightens me is that I know I'll never recover what is gone. It's not like the sudden surge of a hidden memory jogged loose, a lost thought that comes back in response to the right stimulus, as bright as a new penny. This is different. This is the sinking lurch that comes when the right stimulus brings back remembered actions and behaviors and feelings, attributes that were part of my essence, my spirit. And, now they feel.wrong. Is this a denial of who I was then? Or a failure to recognize who I am now?
Maybe it's the season. I used to love autumn. I never looked at that time of year as an ending. When the leaves fell and the fruit was harvested, it was a time when the earth prepared to rest and sleep and recover the energy she had spent. It was the precursor to the land snuggling under winter's downy, white comforter.
We became lovers in autumn. Even as the days grew short and cold, we discovered a new vitality and passion within ourselves, a fire that burned so bright and hot in the dark nights. It was a magical season.
Now I feel that autumn signals the end of things. It's the season of loss and death, the killing season. The scent of the fallen leaves carries a memory of the smoke of a smoldering house. The wind whipping through the naked boughs keens like the frightened cry of a baby. The early nightfall opens like the dark void in the wide pupils of lifeless eyes.
Cold. Autumn is too cold now. Blasted and barren, it's a time of sorrow, no matter how hard I try to find my way back to the glorious, golden autumns of my youth.
My lover will return in a few days. Until then, I'll muddle along. I'll try not to think too much. And I'll wait.
Loss
I blink rapidly, realizing that I'd read the same page for at least the fifth time. No, that wasn't true. My eyes had rappelled like a mountain climber down the text, hopping from phrase to phrase, indentation to margin, picking up the contours of the print rather than the sense of the words.
"What's the point?" I mutter to myself, tossing the book onto the desk, giving up my scatter-brained attempt to get any work done. I wander aimlessly into the kitchen, not because I'm hungry, but in a vain effort to occupy my mind with tasks to fill up the time. We're low on Pepper-Up Potion and Joint Ache Salve. Simple enough to brew up new batches, if we have all the necessary ingredients. Let's see. While I check on that, I might as well give the pantry a once-over and see if we're were short on other necessities. Perhaps tomorrow I'll go to Diagon Alley to get whatever we need. It'll get me out of the house. Maybe.
A shrill whistling cuts across my thoughts. The water in the kettle is boiling. I find myself gazing out the back window while a cup of tea steeps, noticing that the last blossoms have faded and a thin layer of leaves already carpets the ground. It's time for the autumnal ritual of preparing the gardens for winter. Plus, I'm sure I saw evidence of gnome encroachment. I'll take care of that. Soon.
As I take my tea and sit at the table, I get that nagging feeling of forgetting something. What was I thinking about before starting to worry about the yard? Oh, yes. Supplies and provisions. I should make a list. Later.
I used to have an effortless ability to think about several projects at once. In fact, years ago, I drove my friends mad with my seemingly uncontrolled, antic, gadfly approach to problems. Although I admit that their reactions amused me, I really didn't act that way on purpose. It was simply the way my mind worked. Thinking about one task sometimes released a flash of insight into another. So, I'd jump to the second task while inspiration held, which would then often lead to the third or fourth task. Then I'd pick up whatever I'd been working on originally without skipping a beat. I've never been a particularly linear person.
Can I not concentrate because my lover is away? I don't know. Maybe I feel this disconnection because it's hard for me to be alone. I've been alone for so very long.
Am I like this all the time now? I'm not sure. Is this behavior evidence of another piece of myself that I've lost? Another thread that has frayed and broken, another cog in the machine that has snapped off?
I feel lost sometimes. And what frightens me is that I know I'll never recover what is gone. It's not like the sudden surge of a hidden memory jogged loose, a lost thought that comes back in response to the right stimulus, as bright as a new penny. This is different. This is the sinking lurch that comes when the right stimulus brings back remembered actions and behaviors and feelings, attributes that were part of my essence, my spirit. And, now they feel.wrong. Is this a denial of who I was then? Or a failure to recognize who I am now?
Maybe it's the season. I used to love autumn. I never looked at that time of year as an ending. When the leaves fell and the fruit was harvested, it was a time when the earth prepared to rest and sleep and recover the energy she had spent. It was the precursor to the land snuggling under winter's downy, white comforter.
We became lovers in autumn. Even as the days grew short and cold, we discovered a new vitality and passion within ourselves, a fire that burned so bright and hot in the dark nights. It was a magical season.
Now I feel that autumn signals the end of things. It's the season of loss and death, the killing season. The scent of the fallen leaves carries a memory of the smoke of a smoldering house. The wind whipping through the naked boughs keens like the frightened cry of a baby. The early nightfall opens like the dark void in the wide pupils of lifeless eyes.
Cold. Autumn is too cold now. Blasted and barren, it's a time of sorrow, no matter how hard I try to find my way back to the glorious, golden autumns of my youth.
My lover will return in a few days. Until then, I'll muddle along. I'll try not to think too much. And I'll wait.