Jackie Kay

I dry my hands and pour the water down the sink. I must remember things. I look out of the kitchen window. It has been raining. Tiny beads of rain have been painted on the window pane when I wasn't looking. It is a fine Impressionists' rain. Next door's rowan tree is still quite still, not at all flamboyant; it is not the season for flamboyance. I can see Elsa at her kitchen window peeling potatoes. The intimacy startles me. Seeing me staring, she waves at me. I wave back, suddenly glad of the human contact. If I pin myself down and remember the ordinary things, I will be able to manage. To get up each day and get washed and eat and sleep. To live a life without my companion. To live this life where I am exhausted with my own company, terrible thoughts spinning morning to night in my head. Maybe this is what people mean when they say they are lonely. Maybe they mean they are exhausted even with their own company. If I could just say I am lonely how lovely and ordinary that sounds.