Words

On a rare occasion, you read or hear something that takes you by surprise and so ruthlessly exposes your private, secret feelings, it literally takes your breath away. For the first time, I came very close to a meltdown at work when I read these words emailed to me by a friend and written by Valerie Hemmingway about her ex- (and now deceased) husband, Gregory (son of Ernest).

"I never had it in my heart to be angry with Greg, except momentarily, for he suffered far more than anyone I have known. So much of life passed him by because he was wallowing in despair, soaring with destructive mania, or discontented with the essence of his being. I remember back to that moment when he first left: the sadness, my feeling of abject failure, augmented by relief. . . . What an unbelievable luxury it was not to worry, not to fear, not to be threatened. In our final year together, life around Greg had become a prolonged nightmare. Now I could savor the simplest of pleasures. The ticking of a clock for comfort, the singing of a bird for joy, the taste of a raspberry fresh from the garden still bathed in dew. It was sheer happiness and it was infinite."

I know. And feel. Exactly. Every word. Exactly. Valerie and I both know. Except in my case the name was not Greg. I'm reluctant to admit the pain is still so strong, so near the surface. I manage to partition my life so well that I almost convince myself that this was not my experience at all. But it was.