The Sting-a-Ling Craziness

Of course one does not see into the future. Or entertain any thought of it - one is filled with hope and faith. We would be rescued from this predicament, I thought. All things had always worked out; I was never more than briefly lost. There had always been either an explanation or a reprieve, forgiveness, or a second chance. I always managed to come out on top - damaged, bruised, but intact. I had never fallen to pieces. My life had been a series of small miracles, like a string of pearls. This was simply the time for another miracle, another pearl to add to the chronicle of family life.

But that night in France heralded a downfall, and we tumbled headlong into a pit. There was to be no rescue.

I look back now with awe. Sometimes, just falling asleep, the pit yawns again; post traumatic and grisly. But I can sweep it aside. With practice, I am able now to sweep it away and tighten my thoughts, so that I can concentrate on little things. Life now is a series of little things.

Someone once wrote Death, where is they sting-a-ling? Where is it indeed; what is it - who cares. There are always sleeping pills, I say, usually to my little dog Bella. There is always that way out. I have lost my awe of death, my death; I discuss this with my little dog, who listens with bright eyed sympathy, then lays her head down on her paws. There I am discussing death with my pet, whose very life is an essence of love and loyalty, who would give her life for me - she does not fear death either. But she loves, and that's truth. Her love and joy scampers round my heels, follows me from room to room, lays with resignation at my feet wherever I pause, encircles me with gaiety, her constant appetite, her joyous morning greeting as she bustles out into the new dawn, the new happy day.

And then those that have flown the nest. Two sons B and M, a daughter K, whose care and commentary I value beyond measure but who live far away. Whose voices within that telephone call anchor me, amuse me - where they are, what they are doing, the park, the house move, the drive to the stables, reminders of another and vital existence other than my own sting-a-ling or preoccupation with the peculiar present time I seem to be enjoying. They lift me, remind me, insist on my grannyhood, my return to sanity.

I would never take those sleeping pills.

I live now in a new house. Two weeks after our return from France I moved into a rented house in a gated community. For security. Before Son M and daughter-in-law P returned to America we had found the new house and moved with furniture and boxes, the move immediate and shocking, a blur which carried me through as on a wave. M and P stayed with me a further two weeks so that my bones could sink slightly into the new darkness with their company for protection; Baby V's smiles cushioning me further. The house, brand new, with no ghosts. It stands metres away from a small lake, the lawn ending in a border of water reeds on which small, orange and black birds flitter.

This view is hypnotic. Across the lake are a series of new houses straight from a drawing board. They are beige or grey trimmed with white and have green roofs, they look American. Their verandas also border the lake and their occupants are far enough away to be anonymous. A fountain runs in the middle of the stretch of water, masking every day conversation. It is turned off at night, its silence filled, at times, by a chorus of frogs. It is so perfect, I wish that F could have seen it,