A Gap of my Own Making.
Gap toothed, bare knuckled, ugly out there emotion,
Stop gap, heart attack, silent killer hidden emotion.
Every word that has passed between us has been superficial, letters that don’t know any better,
Polite & light & speaking without saying any one thing mean or meant.
Except for a Guinness lip loosened attempt at letting me know you missed me, & it made you sad.
“Why do you never call round anymore?”
You were asking “What did I do?” & even Dutch courage couldn’t inspire in me an answer either of us could understand.
There was the bolt from the blue phone call that left me breathless in a Morrisons’ at 2 in the afternoon, with a boy who was leaving my life left with no choice but to offer me half-hearted comfort. I felt homesick, homeless. & then you said “Just come home. We need you here.” & for the first time in a very long time I needed you too. Home is where the heart is, & I hadn’t realised how big a piece of my heart you still held, & I hadn’t realised how little of my heart I still clung to.
So I returned, I came home, where two halves of a whole were returned to the earth, where grief hung heavy round our necks & under our eyes. Where we cried, as family, for the first time that I can recall. & we laughed, as friends, because that much time has passed now! & you thanked my friends for being my friends & I thanked, someone, something, for all the love that I had left.
He says, “I feel like a bath for you sometimes, when you need a good soak.”
She says, “I’m sorry that lately I’ve left the tap running, been too much for you to hold. Lain too long and let things grow cold between us.
A bath is somewhere to relax after a hard day. It’s not a place to hide for weeks, or days even. It’s a short term tool to ease worry and soothe aching muscles. It doesn’t fix anything, nor is it supposed to.
So in future I need to remember that it’s good to feel your warmth, to close my eyes and let the day slip away. But once that’s done I need to dry off, get dressed and use the serenity you’ve gifted me with to make more concrete steps to feeling better, to fixing myself.
I need to get out while there’s still warmth in the water.”
Jamye Drohan is Irish born, Edinburgh based. By day she serves tasty coffees and runs a café, and when she’s off the clock she writes as a type of therapy in a constant quest to figure out how her anxiety operates, and show her workings.