We talk about things we want to or need to do.
We mostly don’t do any of those things.
We spend time with family.
I make it to sewing, once.
I don’t back out of galentines.
We start going to church again regularly.
Neither me or Big B ever really feels healthy and well.
Little B remembers how to giggle and does it a lot.
Friends invite us to their homes. Maube they feel sorry for us.
I tell people that my 3 year old would have lost both of his parents in the last few months if we didn’t have access to modern medicine.
Cynicism is a coping mechanism.
I start drawing for the first time in my life.
The chickens start laying again as the days get longer.
I play hockey for the first time in 4 years.
I don’t accomplish anything significant or interesting or visible.
This is the malaise in between. In between what ? In between loss and healing. In between the heartbroken autumn and the spring that was supposed to be the happiest spring of our lives but now looms empty. In between the darkness of the past and the unknown of the future. In between.
In between.
In between.
These words are important. This has to be a middle, not a forever, this ambivalence where nothing is horrible, and nothing is fantastic, this Malaise in Between.
