Hello dearest readers, writers and friends…
Have you felt a touch of spring in the air this week? In this little corner of France we have been teased by a warm afternoon here and there only for winter to return like a slap in the face then race off again cackling with laughter at its own joke!
Perhaps we should be used to Mother Natures pranks by now?
I am struggling though… I do not enjoy the changing of the season, not now or ever. However, regardless of my visible and often audible agitation, the immense amount of water that is running off the hill, through the yard, flooding the ponds and the rivers whilst uprooting several aged trees en-route, that my chickens, having been let loose into the field, are so delighted with their new found freedom they have taken to roosting in the old pear tree and I lost my favourite fingerless gloves, spring is ecstatically springing!
With that in mind, I won’t keep you, I’m certain you all want to make the most of the bursting and blooming too, here is the second of my essays for Tanya Shadrick’s A Cure for Sleep. If you missed the first you will find it here and a link at the bottom of the page will take you to her website and Substack pages.
The Bone.
I’m not sure how long I traversed planets, their galaxies exploding into stars; a car hit mine on a tiny country lane as I return from the market is all I recall. It was instant, spinning body detached from mind into a ceaseless orbital of agonising pain…
Briefly I return, precious seconds, clamorously clinging to corporeality, enough to clutch seven months of unborn baby as pain slips quietly into fear. They overlap, return and dissipate. Undisciplined waves.
I am conscious of others talking, a paramedic, perhaps? I clear creases of residual stars from encephalon, attempt movement again, try to form words in answer to their concerns but erudite signals malfunction. Two words form in a whispered question ‘my baby’ before I part company from fixed space once more, only now the stars spin, dissolve, re-emerge, explode in myriad shades of white - I am - float slowly down and are extinguished - I am not - one by one. On repeat.
I am - I am not, ethereally floating above myself, watching the folding and unfolding I cannot control.
I reattach but each movement threatens stars again. Professional hands, gently urgent and insistent transport me in my orbiting pain. I feel like I am being held hostage to trauma in sterile blue. Lying, strapped to my anguish, traveling again, safe but breathing via a mask attached to too many plastic tubes.
Somebody is holding my left foot, I feel panic threatening to escape, I need to speak, to reconnect the connections. The effort is supreme and errupts in screaming garbled and foul words, ‘my baby… why are you holding my fucking foot? What about my fucking baby?’ Hysteria threatens, lands and is swept away.
‘ Your baby isn't distressed madam, you have broken your foot, a bone is protruding, we must remove your shoe.’
I wish you all beautiful spring days ahead,
With love
If you are in the slightest bit curious—and you really should be—about Tanya’s endless and benevolent work for aspiring writers please do tap here or below to read more.
Strawberry Blonde and Freckles
Hello lovely readers, writers and curious passers by, you are very welcome. I’ve been doing a little housekeeping here on my Substack pages which, before I forget, I would like to quickly tell you about. I felt my some of my letters were adrift, needed more of a home, a place to sit where you could find them more easily and they would be happy to stay…
"Thank god, "I sighed with relief at the end of your gripping story.
Thanks again for your writing Susie. xx
Ah another gem you've written here, Susie! I am transported to the trauma, to the fear, and I feel that enclosing surroundings suffocating me. Beautifully written, my friend!