Good Grief 198

Deconstruction
I was given these roses on 17th June.
Almost all routes home were closed.
I didn't want to leave, didn't want to stay, didn't want to go back to work, don't feel up to it, who am I kidding....feel as though the only thing I know is to walk the marsh. How symbolic is that. The metaphor hasn't escaped me ... the sucking mud, the fight to get anywhere, the looking for signs, for indicators, subtle markers, something, anything to follow. I walk out and there is nothing to bring me back, I get back and there is nothing to entice me out.
As I drove through the dark I eventually got to home territory and I detoured to my friend's ... it was gone midnight but the kitchen window was open and I left a bag of samphire on the kitchen sink.
Somehow ... somehow ... I got up and launched into a full day at work.
In the in between moments, writing notes, I plugged into a bit of Bach again ... it works ... and I imagined if I opened the door my husband would be just stood there waiting to give me a hug. Pathos, or what ...
But knew there was nothing there but a couple of empty chairs.