The things that we think of when the lavender and lemongrass essential oils are wafting through the room, and I am half asleep and struggling to see. The smell permeates my brain and acts as a truth serum. These are moments writers beg for and detest. It is our witching hour.
I am thinking on the fact that I am completely and utterly alone. Most of my family are dead. My children passed long ago. I have no friends. Reverend Billy Graham spoke on loneliness in an archived service that I listened to today. He shared a true story of an old woman, 92 years of age, who died alone. Every day, she wrote in her diary, “No letters. No visitors. No phone calls. No one loves me.” I fear that I am a cross between Auntie Mame and a hermit who lives in a house that everyone believes is haunted. And, it is haunted by her memories of past loved ones, past lives, the past everywhere which she keeps alive to comfort her.
So, while under this magic trance and devil dance, I will make the confession that begs me to stay awake. I don’t believe that God ever wanted me to be a Mother. Otherwise, He wouldn’t have taken my children. Taken. And, I have no set of special skills to get them back. Now, I am a barren widow. I am not playing the pity card. These are just the facts, Ma’am. Just the facts.