“In the hush of morning, before the day begins its noise, I sit in the quiet and remind myself: I am here. Still moving. Still whole — almost.”
It’s my favourite time to write: the early mornings. There is something about the silence, the promise of a day not yet begun, that brings joy and solace. In those moments, I almost feel normal. Almost.
Some days I am angry. Today, I’m at a crossroads. The place where I always find myself looking back instead of forward. A part of me whispers: it’s not too late, you could turn around, apologise, slip back into your old life as though nothing was broken. But the intelligent part of me knows the truth. Even if I strain, even if I shield my eyes from the glare, there is no trail of breadcrumbs, no tide running backwards to carry me home.
To be honest, I’m not sure Robert Frost and I would have got on. His “road less travelled” was simply another version of the one I was already walking. My life has never followed the neat, well-trodden path. I have always been a square peg looking for a square hole that doesn’t exist. I am most comfortable in shadows, and yet somehow, I always end up dragged into the light, like a cat caught in unexpected headlights. That is how I feel now.
I am trying — and failing miserably — to buy somewhere to live. I have a job, a little bit of money, and even a mortgage offer. I am lucky, I know. But either I don’t fit the house, or the little rat-faced estate agent decides the house doesn’t fit me. (Apologies if you are an estate agent, but let’s be honest — you’re the traffic wardens of the housing world: forever showing what could have been, while selling it to someone else who probably slipped a silver coin into your palm.) Power does strange things to those unused to holding it.
And then there are the questions: Why are you moving? Downsizing? Do you have a family? — followed by the raised eyebrow: Oh, it’s just you? As though a single woman has never bought a house before. I ask about cesspits and rotten windows, and they blink as if I’ve spoken in tongues. The bottom line? They don’t care. Someone will buy it anyway.
So, the feeling grows. The temptation to turn back, not down a path, but across a board. Perhaps I am not a traveller at all but a chess piece, shuffled forward one square at a time until, one day, a pawn gone rogue finds herself waking back at the wrong end.
It is early July, though it feels like autumn. The circle of flies in the garden spins in the light, and summer seems to have packed its bag already — off to France, leaving us with grey skies and greyer moods. Later, when the children go back to school, the sun will no doubt swagger back with its golden grin, offering us a consolation prize: the promise of an Indian summer.
But that’s not today. Today, there’s another solicitor to call, another estate agent to endure, another square to step forward. For now, in the hush of morning, before the day begins its noise, I sit in the quiet and remind myself: I am here. Still moving. Still whole — almost.