We ride the bus, Ros and I, into the chromed sunset before us, plumes of cloud stretching off into the night colored cotton candy. I point to it, until her tiny pug nose is pushed against the window, smudging the glass with her exhaled breath.
“Oh Ros look how wonderful and beautiful it is! How lovely!”
She stares into the windows of an old house, where the oranges are reflecting.
“Mummy! Pumkin lights! Orange! I luv orange!”
‘Honey, it’s the sunset-isn’t it wonderful?!”
“Pumkin lights Mummy. Pumkins.”
I feel so ridiculously delicate lately, like a feather about to blow off into the distance. I question myself-constantly. I haven’t always done this. In the past, I could make a decision, eventually, and stick by it. Or not. Now, I sway in the breeze, and feel like I’m in a moses basket waiting for someone to pick me up. I can’t shake it-this feeling of temporary sanity or security. It’s as if I’m standing on an iceburg in spring, floating south, knowing it’s only a matter of time before my footing is removed and I’m lost at sea, left to drown. I feel adrift, and alone, and I don’t know why.
Something is gone from me. Something has left a festering little hole inside me, and it’s empty and sad and angry, mostly at me. It’s a hole where indecision lives, apathy, depression. It wants something, but it doesn’t know what-knows it aches with longing, but not for what. It misses what it once was, wishes it had that certainty again, wonders if it can have it ever.
I can’t get a bead on where it’s coming from. I’m never satisfied it seems, always driving for me, not even knowing what I’m getting at, looking for some piece of magic that doesn’t exist, a magpie searching for the perfect shiny pebble that I’ll never find. I feel unsettled, unstable in my skin, like an echo, and I hate it. This itch I can’t scratch, or even really articulate-infuriating and depressing, all at once.
Maybe that’s my secret name-infuriating and depressing. I’m beginning to think so.