Let me be right to trust in your grace, infinite wisdom and judgement. Give me the strength to be patient, knowing the right thing will happen but only at the right time. Give me the courage to neither look back nor look forward, but to move on, one firm step at a time.
Let me breathe, hope, dream and trust, as I have always done.
And above all, let me be utterly complacent, impractical and confident again, the way only a much loved and protected child can be.
I have:
1. Weevils in the store cupboard. Weevils are not native to the UK, perfectly safe and not really repulsive. These particular ones are probably third generation weevils that were lovingly and unintentionally transported from India with Gobindobhog rice, which is the only rice that should be offered to a Bengali toddler.
2. A long, empty evening sometimes. Either that, or work and more work. And on the days I have the one, I miss the other.
3. Journals and more journals. With blotted entries, happy entries, anxious entries and determined entries.
4. A heart full of hope that refuses to die.
I settled in with popcorn and Diet Coke, to watch the movie of our life. It started at the beginning as I remembered it, but then, it started to change.
Remember when we first fought and you angrily stormed out and how scared and worried I was? This time, you just kept quiet and I felt sad and we hugged and then we laughed and we went out together.
Then there was the time you got that chance to move. Only this time, you did not and we stayed put in our somewhat old fashioned and slow paced city and found other things to do and be happy with, together.
We held hands a lot. And we stayed in a lot. And we talked so much, sometimes we were just tired but there was always so much to say.
And there was no room for anything else really, in that little space we just had each other. And it stayed that way, this time.
The end.
In the brief interlude between my last blog post and the one that I uploaded a short while back, much has changed and much has not. My favourite city in the world is home now. Some old memories of a little girl growing up in a book filled house have grown fainter, because a little boy is growing up in another book filled house and creating new memories at a breathless pace. The racer continues to race along - some paths shall never diverge. Old friends remain, and I realise I will probably grow old together with this lot.
And new friends emerge - who write me poems and bring food over.
In all this, there is the daily business of work-hobbies-chores to repeat cycles of.
Even as I remind myself, how good it is to write again.
I could tell you I am wiser now, weary but at peace. I could tell you I know better now, myself and my life. I could tell you it’s been ten thousand days, nights and hours all packed into a single conversation. But you know all this, and more.
It’s a lonely night, a dark road with a tiny pinprick of light ahead - you can see it if you squint really hard.
And it’s a long walk, on that lonely road.
And you keep going because that’s what it was always supposed to be like.
