This is my place
On January 1st, 2007, after 14 years together, my ex and I parted ways under extremely acrimonious circumstances. She kept the home that I'd thought of as "ours". I was informed by her that it was rightly to be considered "hers". She kept the children that I'd thought of as "ours". I was informed that she considered them "hers". Her every sentence began with the the words "I", "My" or "Me". The first person plural had completely disappeared from her vocabulary. With no money, little income, and no place to stay, I was fortunate to be offered shelter with some friends.
This is my place.
It is small, a few square meters of floor.
It is not mine in the sense that I own it. But I am allowed to use it.
I am not happy. I will not be happy for a long time to come, if ever again.
But I am grateful.
My place is warm. The floor is hard, but there is an air mattress to sleep on, and a warm duvet to wrap up in. And there is a radiator giving off heat -- which is good, because it is winter outside.
There is a lamp. There are books, which my hosts are kind enough to let me read. There is even a computer, which I am allowed to use.
The books and the computer help me stay awake. This is good, because when I lie down to sleep, and turn off the light, something horrible comes and nestles in my heart. But I do sleep, on occasion.
When I do turn off the light, I lie awake, trying to think of something that isn't my misery. I look out the window. From the mattress on the floor, I have a view of the full Moon, shining luminously in a swirl of clouds in the wintry night.
I think: "This Moon shines upon the place that was mine. If my children wake in the night, and look out their windows, they see this same Moon."
The Moon is a great comfort to me.
It looks so serene.
Continued from Hermetic | Continues in Arise, Lazarus, should you wish to read on.