The
beauty surrounding him tried to distract him, but he could not escape. He was
alone. He wanted to tell her about the way the water and the sky merged, with
only the passing boats to indicate that there was even a place where the ocean
stopped and the sky began. No he didn’t want to tell her, he wanted to be able
to show her, share it with her, hold her as they looked out across the water.
The
anger started as a distant anxious knot in his stomach. It rumbled and gurgled
and he gasped to catch his breath as his heart-beats cramped. He felt the
solid demon inside drag itself up from the pit of his stomach, clenching his
chest and squeezing the air from his lungs. It shuddered and swelled into his
throat and through to his finger tips. From nowhere the anger burst out of his
mouth, pushing his hands in to a punching mass of fists and knuckles pounding
the air, the rock, the sand. He fell to his knees, weak from this strangling
fear of lost control. Yet the anger raged on like a tide of jagged emotions
ripping through his frail old body. He wept. He shouted. He buried his head
into his hands and he shook.
He’d
finally been able to let out everything he’d been holding inside since that
fateful day. He’d wanted to grieve, to shout and scream, but he’d been held
back by a sense of denial, of accepting that reality was real and that there
was no going back, even though there seemed no way of moving forward. To grieve
is to accept. To accept is to understand. To understand is to let go.
George
couldn’t let go.
Not
here.
Not
yet.
Soon.
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