April is the cruellest month.
So began TS Eliot in The Burial of The Dead, the opening section of The Waste Land, published in 1922.
All very apt 90 years later, as I struggle to comprehend a world without my beloved Dad.
We have sought solace in the garden amidst the blur of our sorrow; even blinded by tears there is something reassuring about burying neglected bulbs, and sowing abandoned seeds. In the past weeks, I have gratefully fallen into the rhythm of weeding and digging and other simple tasks that require no real application of mind, though taking enough focus to temporarily soothe the maelstrom within.
The sudden swings between turbulent storms and dazzling spring sunshine outside seems to echo the internal struggle of loss; but despite sharp nights and wild windy days, the broad beans that we planted out are standing firm. Tomatoes planted into the borders in the greenhouse some weeks ago are also comfortable, though the cucumber plants have keeled over and replacements shelter on a sunny windowsill for a few weeks more.
The long-anticipated vignettes of our first-year spring blooms have fallen rather flat, but there is a part of me that still finds a sliver of pleasure in the flurries of flowers that abound.
Thank you for your words of support. We are still here. We are comforting one another, and slowly starting to rebuild this sad new world around us. Please bear with me if I don’t write much in these strange days; if I visit you seldom and mostly silently for a while.
It has been a cruel month indeed. But it will pass, and I will find my voice again.