There is a time in life when you expect the world to be always of new things …
There is a time in life when you expect the world to be always full of new things. And then comes a day when you realise that is not how it will be at all.
You see that life will become a thing made of holes. Absences. Losses. Things that were there and are no longer. And you realise, too, that you have to grow around and between the gaps, though you can put your hand out to where things were and feel that tense, shining dullness of the space where the memories are.
Here’s a word. Bereavement. Or, Bereaved. Bereft. It’s from the Old English bereafian, meaning ‘to deprive of, take away, seize, rob’. Robbed. Seized. It happens to everyone. But you feel it alone. Shocking loss isn’t to be shared, no matter how hard you try.
The hawk was everything I wanted to be: solitary, self-possessed, free from grief, and numb to the hurts of human life.