Sour Milk

Yesterday was a strange day. I spent it alone and as a result I did a great deal of thinking. Thinking is something I try to avoid these days because usually thinking leads to crying... is synonymous with crying. No one wants to be around a sniveling crying basket case. The strange thing is that physically I wasn't alone. We went on our field trip to Carstairs and Shuttleworks and I sat in the back seat of the car. The other two that I was with we're gabbing away in the front seat while I stared out the window in the back. It was not easy to hear what was going on in the front since I needed the window cracked. So in the end I knew that even though I had two chatting and gabbing women in a vehicle with me the end result the 'aloneness' settled around me like a cloak in very short order. - as for our field trip... it was entertaining and very interesting to go and see a working woollen mill. Shuttleworks was a clean, modern store with every possible thing to do with spinning and weaving available for sale. But the drive was long and I spent much of my time very much in deep private thought. It may have been good for cathartic reasons but not really a good time or place to take off the blinders and see my situation clearly for what it is. - I came home in no fit state to be around others. - The result of my catharsis is this: that he is well and truly lost to me. That he has turned his back on me. That while debased about that I was on a huge grieving trip. I could be no more grief stricken if he had died. Indeed, he is well and truly dead to me. My Teapot is gone. No more. The end. Finished. But not only was I grieving for him. I was grieving for me too. - When I met and married him I was a young woman still with girlish ideals of love and romance. The last twenty years with him have stripped that all away and left me jaded about fairy tale love. There is no such thing. Up until two weeks ago, I thought I had been one of the lucky ones and found it. But what is hard and fast is that it was all an illusion. A magician's trick of the eye. Suddenly, I was seeing me as 'past her spoil date' and that as much as anything would make me cry. Even fine wine eventually turns to vinegar. That is what he has turned me into. I am vinigar and that is about as appealing as... well, it is corrosive really. So you see there really is something to cry over. Not only am I crying over spilt milk, I'm crying because the milk is sour - So now the question is can I practice a miracle. Can I turn vinigar into a fine old whiskey? Because until I'm no longer vinigar I'm not much good to anyone.