wading

Page Forty-two

Tuesday 8 December 2009…  Turners Falls hauntingly

Body and soul as if wading through mud, the deep, heavy mud of the second November and Thanksgiving without my own life and my family. And now the second December, and Solstice and Yule. I don’t want to move from my bed in the mud. I have to wrench myself, force myself out of it, as if out of quicksand.                    

Dear, sorrowful memories of 2007, our last holiday season together. Ugly memories too: of eviction, of the Department of Mental Health doing nothing at all to keep some of us together, of unrelenting harassment by the mafia-connected psycho-tenant, and finally harassing her back. She gave me the opportunity, and I took it. But the time and energy spent returning her harassment took time and energy away from being present with my animals, just before I lost them.

Not only a ghost who both haunts and is haunted, but a flimsy ghost moving through mercilessly thick mud. Wandering, wading; always tired, always beaten down.

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