And a woman who doesn't know where to begin.
Do I tell you who I used to be before I became this invisible woman?
Do I describe to you who and what I have loved, in the spirit of showing rather than telling you who I am?
Do I tell you how it feels to be writing to no one as if I am writing to someone and how, today, I feel ambivalent about being known at all?
Where to begin? Where to begin?
At the beginning? Oh no, not there. That is a place of such familiar pain that the story has grown numb in it's telling.
Do I start in the middle with a love that almost destroyed me? No, no. That is hopeless. That is bitter. That is a story that even I have grown bored with, so predictable is it's ending.
Do I start here?
Ah yes, here.
A winter's morning. A child watching TV. A bird seen through the branches of a rain-dropped tree. A woman starting to cry, silently, with no idea why.
And a pause.
A pause so big I can see my face in it's reflection and it goes on and on and on...
And I don't know whether to be sad or relieved about that.
That this moment is where I am. That this moment is all there is. That this moment is as valuable as any other. That it is up to me to make this day good. That I have lost God. And found God. And even fancied I became God. And still, here I am, alone in this flesh, making peace with a life. Alone.
My daughter watches TV, rolls on the floor laughing, turns to me and says, "Did you know this was Funny Friday?" and rolls around again in the taken-for-granted freedom of easy laughter. I see, feel, hear the absurdity in my melancholy presence. A shadow thrown black in the light of her joy with living.
And I am envious.
I would not take this from her. Not for one moment. And I bite my writing tongue from telling you that the small me would take it. Would take it as a child snatches a toy from a happier child and finds itself still without the happiness...
And I wonder where I went. The me who was able to do that. To laugh easily. To lose myself in the moment. To find myself in the moment.
I look around again, at this life. It is not special. A cat sitting on a table, a rain-dripping day, a woman tap-tapping at a keyboard and a child watching television.
Perhaps it is enough.
Enough to begin with.