The End of the World

Fog wrapped all that was there in thickest grey. It appeared I was in front of a vast ocean at the end of the world. Small waves of grey salt water moving towards the house, hypnotic, infinite; Reminding me of the world out beyond the tunnel of caring for my dying husband.

We each have “our world”, the one we create within our communities, work place, families. Most people I know have lived within their world a very long time. Their rhythms are well established, the barista at their local cafe knows them. Maybe they even say hello to their neighbors. They may not even be aware of how held they are by little things. The way the light comes into the kitchen in the morning or knowing where most everything is without having to think too much about it. All the many unconscious habits of place.

John and I have been gypsy souls. Living in a dozen different homes and places in the almost ten years of our life together. One year with our belongings in storage, we traveled for work, living only in other peoples homes.

Our togetherness was what created “our world”. Wherever we were together was home. Now John lies in a hospital bed in the living room of our last home together. He is days, weeks away from heading on his own, back home.

I look out at the view today that was so obscured by fog and see many shades of blue, green, grey, pink as the sun lights the hills and water. I can see where I am. It is not at the end of the world…

And I wonder, tears sliding, throat aching what I will create for myself without the togetherness that has been home this past decade.