This past month has been one of
celebration and of sorrow: celebration for us, with the advent of new clients,
meaning that the barometer of our own lives has finally swung back round to ‘hopeful’
from ‘dismal’, and sorrow for some whose
lives have touched ours over the years.
In the arching span of a human
existence, there are those whose lives kiss the pink of yours, gently,
delicately, leaving the whisper of memories, those whose lives pot your black
and careen yours off at a tangent and others whose dynamic rush and impact
atomically fuse yours with theirs in a blaze of glory, never again to be unmelded.
Our families, friends, colleagues and acquaintances, dealing with their lives and
impacting on ours, however close or distant we are, have been or will become.
Confidence, knocked and battered
by grave misfortune; a spate of accusations, groundless in truth but suspicious
on the surface, almost destroying the strongest marital foundations I know,
sudden and unexpected death, a devastating diagnosis. A debilitating injury; a
parting of the ways. Unjust machinations by those put in place to help, but who manipulate facts, twist words and rend brutally asunder. The Boy and I, we help where we
can, practically, financially, or otherwise.
We lend an ear, we offer solace, tissues, a refuge. We write letters, consoling, offering
support, laying out the facts and putting things straight. Sometimes, we just do nothing, because we can’t
do anything.
