missing Bethany.

Like a broken record, the child whines.
"No. Mine. No. Mine. No. Mine. No. Mine. EW! Ava spewed."

"I'm not cleaning it up. No. Mine. No. Mine. No."

If I listened to the caffeine which fills my veins instead of blood, I would probably be screaming threats. Empty ones, but still.
"If I hear the word No just one more time....."

News drones. I fake a headache, even to myself. It seems to suit the mood - the weather is grey. The floor is damp and smells like bleach. The cat shat in front of the oven. There is three quarters of a bottle of white wine on the counter and a sink full of dishes. I wonder which will be emptied sooner.

I need to take my meds.

It was a whirlwind of leaving, this morning. Things were unsaid, left behind and waiting; there is half a pot of coffee on the warmer. My house is a temple of sampled beverages, from the wine to the coffee, from the large bottle of cola that is never far from me, to the jug of tap water sitting on the bench, right next to the tap. Apparently it tastes better if you leave it sitting for a while.

A whirlwind, a cyclone of leaving which left (in its turn) concealer and undiscovered grey shoes, Tolstoy and sunsilk. She didn't hang her towel up this morning and, although I notice (as always), I don't care. There are a million tiny things that I long to get used to - a gentle melding of quirks and habits into a coherent whole. I do feel halved. I hadn't expected that.

The child bounces on the couch. I watch him for a minute before he notices and he still denies it. The faux headache because a very real aching in my damaged wrist. I want to bury myself, like a seed; I want to lay dormant in the soil for a while before sending out feeder roots to gather water (so far, this is a very wet spring; it's as if the sky was crying, if you'll give me permission for a terribly overused metaphor); eventually stretching out limbs and twigs and buds to meet the summer sun.

It suddenly feels like winter in my bones.