August Is Always Full of Ache
I lost someone close to me, this week. It was not unexpected, but impending grief does not eradicate that grief. Knowing about it beforehand—like the sword of damocles—does not dull the pain, though it does help you brace for it. You cannot unsharpen a blade with simple foreknowledge of it.
The pain is still pain, and the absence is still there—loud, for all the quiet. Prominent, despite the world whirring around. Life is full of love and loss, and nothing I do will ever affect the existence of either thing.
I remember after my mother died how it changed me. I remember how I changed me in the wake of it, too—promises I made to myself. I became a braver person in a lot of ways. I think I have become a little more like her, too, but she would hold that over my head amusingly, so let’s forget I said that.
I will say that the particular cruelty of this loss is that they died in the same way my mother did, from the same thing. And I have been quietly working through the weight of that for some time now, even before the finality of it all. The pain is its own thing, but it is also an echo. A reminder. A summoning of old ghosts and old aches, unbidden and unasked for, but almost like old friends.
Stories, sometimes, repeat. Heartbreak, too. And there’s no way to ward against it. No way to exorcise it, because experiences are not demons or monsters. There are no incantations or salt rings. No charms or secret words.
For me, August is always full of ache. It is a month I simply try to grit my teeth and get through. Last year, I was in Glasgow, and it was the first August in a long time that there was that much sweetness and joy in it. This month, beyond this loss, has been full of teeth—this past week in particular has just be hard in ways I won’t talk about here and may not ever.
So, I fully intend to spend the rest of this month making plans. There are things I want to do, things I want to achieve, people I want to spend time with. So, I am throwing open the door, even though it might not be a perfect moment. I never expect perfect—just realness. I am planning for joy, asking the questions, not with a weighted expectation, no. But because you get nothing of what you don’t ask for. And I always meet someone else where they are—they just need to tell me where that is.
And I want to see what happens, what I can do, what might be around the next corner. Because I have a next corner, and that is a privilege.
I am not my usual, perky self at the moment. I tend toward ridiculously cheerful—that is my default. But I am also human. I stumble. I make mistakes. My bad moods are stormy even if they are rare. (Fetch me a moor! I have brooding to do!) My timing goes sideways. I am messy.
I’m not always good at seeking comfort or letting people in. But when I do, it’s not an idle thing. It’s a gesture of trust, partially because I hate asking for things. But I spend my attention with purpose, always. I am uncomfortable with being vulnerable, although I make a point to be a safe space for others in that regard. Revealing that soft neck of grief is an act of will and of choice.
For now, this is a glimpse of where I am. We’ll see what’s around that corner, after a bit of space to breathe and to be.
Fran Wilde’s A Catalog of Storms is out now, and you should get it. No, really. RIGHT THIS MINUTE. Like Fran herself, her work is incredible, and this short story collection is a must-read.