Let me tell you

She asks us to write, as we sit alone in our kitchens, our bedrooms, our cupboards, the glow of others’ laptops beaming through our screens. I shuffle, I stand, I adjust the lighting, not sure that I like what I see reflected in the glass tonight.

It’s been a tough day, and I am bruised, deeply. The irony strikes me like the freight trains I hear at night when the prevailing wind blows. My kindness, my diligence, my attempt to support others’ well-being has ended in my own being irreparably damaged. The world is hurting right now, so I am right at home with millions of others, just when I thought I was immune.

Let me tell you about marriage. This is our prompt from the gentle woman who is leading the creative writing webinar. “Just let it flow,” she says, as my pencil hovers above the untidy scribbles on the page. I cannot write about marriage. There is nothing in my head, nothing of value. For who am I to tell you about marriage, a woman without a husband? I feel disingenuous, a phony. Poets, philosophers, law-makers, movie-makers - what do they know of marriage? Marriage is intimate, a complicated and private dance between two. I am no expert.

People are buzzing on the screen in front of me, but I feel isolated, sad, bereft. When she offers the next prompt, the rigor mortis sets in. "Let me tell you about love," I force myself to write. Love is unexpected. Love is overrated. Love is a newborn. Love is painful. “Love is a verb” another student offers, her prose polished and enviable. I jot the quote down.

My sleep is broken, and I toss and turn. Too hot. Too cold. Too thirsty. As the dawn reveals the edges of my consciousness, my elderly cat jumps up onto the bed, struggling as she does these days. Muscle wastage is a slow and cruel passage into old age. The pain is excruciating as her claw punctures the flesh of my upper arm, seeking purchase so she doesn’t slip. With my other arm, I grab hold of the velvety warm body, pleading for her to release the claw. Two seconds, five seconds, ten seconds and finally - as tears stream down my face - she lets go.

I am bruised, deeply.