Lost

I'm a little lost.

Instead of blogging  . . . 

I sit in my car.

In a traffic jam.

Bon Jovi plays.

The song?

Always.

Now I can't sing a love song 
Like the way it's meant to be 
Well, I guess I'm not that good anymore 
But baby, that's just me 

And I will love you, baby - Always 
And I'll be there forever and a day - Always 
I'll be there till the stars don't shine 
Till the heavens burst and 
The words don't rhyme 
And I know when I die, you'll be on my mind 
And I'll love you - Always 

A song that I've always kinda despised.

Until now.

Now I howl along to it.

Out of tune and hoarse.

Sometimes there is nothing magical.

Or kindly.

Nothing consoling.

Nothing comforting.

I try to write and all I can summon up is regurgitated Bon Jovi lyrics.
Which is probably no bad thing. 

It's just bloody lonely.
Always.

Sometimes all that is left is a tiny dead body.

Cold and purple. 

And a woman who can't sing.

Howling along to an outdated power ballad.

Tears falling onto mottled, purple hands.

An echo of death.

In the cold, dark English December night.

Mourning for a little body. A little frame. A little heart.
Dear blue eyes.
Short hair that never grew.
A body that stopped so long ago.
Nobody remembers why she is crying.

***

"Georgina isn't in our family," she says.
Confidently.
Head shaking.

"She is. We can't see her. We can't speak to her. But we can still love her." I insist.
"No mummy," she sighs.

She wants no part of this dead twin complication.
No part of this sister that isn't.
Not right now.

***

But I'm thrilled.
And buying, buying, buying.

Wrapping, wrapping, wrapping.

Planning, planning, planning.

Working, working, working.

Talking, talking, talking.

Talking myself sick.

Until I stop.

Then . . . 

I'm alone.

Just me and Jon. 

Until I get a better soundtrack.

Thank you Clementine's mama.

All our dear children . . . so very missed. Always.