On the 1st July, 2013 I wrote the following in my Moleskin, on the plane on the way home from an out-of-state visit. I didn’t know what it meant at the time or why I wrote it. I have an idea now.
But it’s never as simple as it could be, or as beautiful as it ought to be. It is short, edgy, unforgiving and, worst of all, it is ugly. The faded edges are torn and fraying but the time of the way is near. Or, so it seems. Until the last cold word is held so tightly that it bursts. Until the breaking of the light, between the star-scape covered skies. Until nothing is left but love, or the love of love, or at the very least, the love of the lover of love.
So she turns to glance one more time at that to which she is saying goodbye and she doesn’t choke or sob. She simply smiles. And the smile holds more suffering than any sob ever in the world even could but no-one would know because she looks .so. happy.
She folds the note carefully before addressing it.
To the Newspaper, Obituaries.
27163 8th St SE
Holmesbourne, Cheshire, NSE
and inside, it read;
Nataly Elliott, 36
29 March, 2015
Died after an extended spell of cognitive dissonance, overcome by the fever of unfaithfulness. Never-quite-good-enough daughter of The Parents, selfish sister of The Brother, ex-wife of a cheating Husband, survived by No-one. Toxic friend to many, or those not smart enough to understand she was irredeemable. Irrecoverable. Unsavable.
The sins of the family would stop with her death.