There is a kind of loneliness, a weariness impervious to the
benevolence of words. It is a desert where nothing green
grows. The landscape is flat and unvaried, horizons
nonexistent. It becomes a labour to get out of bed, or turn
on a light, or even to converse.
What to do then when words are ineffective but to touch. To
feed and clean and set fresh flowers on the window sill. To
adjust the pillow. We are left with little else but such small
gestures.
Were I there with you, Oldbat, I would do the same for you.
In honour of your spirit. In acknowledgement of your
exhaustion. We are left with tenderness when all else fails.
Jim