The Black Sorceress...

ImAGe: La SoRCIere noIRE by Ann-Julie Aubrey

I have a small shrine in my home. It's like a tiny bloggy shrine on the landing window-sill.

My beautiful friend, Pamlette, before she abandoned me in the office, gave me a sweet angel of friendship, to say goodbye. She's very pretty, the angel - Red hair, green dress, lilac tulip, resilient wings. And there's a card my distant, in miles and sometimes also mind, friend sent to me for Easter. Also an angel.

Do you sense a theme here, mes bloggy wing-tips?

There's a small tin box, possibly from a child's nursery, possibly from the 1930's. It's gold, well brass or tin, with a printed picture on the lid that shows Little Boy Blue.

Do you remember the sing-song, seventeenth century nursery rhyme?

'Little Boy Blue,
Come blow your horn,
The sheep's in the meadow,
The cow's in the corn;
But where is the boy
Who looks after the sheep?
He's under a haystack,
Fast asleep.
Will you wake him?
No, not I,
For if I do,
He's sure to cry'

I feel a little like the Little Boy Blue at the moment, and a tear ran down the side of my nose on the Metro ride leaving town after work the other day. I pretended it was because it was a cold day, the north wind making my eyes stream.

This is my daily shrine, in the absence of the Church which I don't really believe in anyway, although I do love the ancient Churches of my Pagan and Christian fore-bears, and all that fellow-feeling that comes with faith and/or love and unity... I long for Peace above all. But who can ever say that peace is a constant state for them? Not me, that's for certain...

I've been standing there each morning at that shrine, since I built it. Tapping the angel on her red hair with my index finger, sometimes kissing the top of her head, and, sort-of, praying for an end to this phase I'm going through...

I'm fond of telling friends that. It sounds wise and someone I know, who's very worldly-wise and young, once said just that to me...

"Be patient, Fhi... This phase will pass..."

And I know it will.

So I slept in a little on Saturday, waking to find the bed empty of GJ. Not so unusual. He's an early riser. I padded downstairs and called. No sign. The day was bright and breezy. Perhaps he's gone to the boat, I pondered, on the first dry, bright sunshiney day of the year. Almost spring-like.

I called his mobile. He was at his boating friend's (BF) house. Fine. See you laters...

I read blogs. I wondered. I wrote some of these posts. I pondered. Time passed and the black sorceress of fears and doubt span her strong, shiny black and silken web through my thoughts.

The back door clattered. 'The Return of The Native'. GJ.

No, he hadn't gone sailing. Yes, he'd forgotten to take the boat keys. Yes, did I want to get showered and dressed now, and we'd go to see Boating Friend (BF), whom he'd abandoned at the local pub? Odd, I thought.

And, over a pint of Diet Coke and the roaring fire, we pleasantly passed the time of day.

BF has two parents who are still breathing and much loved, and he couldn't imagine what I was going through, 'but being in the house today brought some of that empty, horror-filled, feeling home to' him... Of clearing away the household possessions, of sifting through memories and tagging and bagging what would stay and what would never be again...

Again, the not knowing was worse than being there and opening the locks. I began to fidget; What were these two men, whom I love, hiding from me?

Just how bad was this going to get?

I needed to get through it.

I began to nervously fidget in my seat... I didn't know what to do with my hands. Finally, I sat on them, to avoid seeing them shake and tremble.

Alone, or in their company. I couldn't sit in the warmth of the fire all day long...

Issues need to be faced. Just as you, my darling commenters, have lately, and oh so kindly said to me. Thank you.

There are ghosts to be exorcised, or exercised...

The truth will out...

Just as it is with blood.