White Bleeding

The tears I cry for my late father are unlike any I have cried before; fat, full and frequent, they stream down my face soaking clothes and tissues alike. They arrive unbidden from some deep unconscious place in my chest and even as they fall, I wonder at their form.

I remember my first yoga teacher telling me that tears are 'white bleeding', that shedding them is healing for they carry cortisone from the body. But these tears catch me unawares; they are an embarrassment to those around me when the sight of one of my father's favourite foods confronts me in the supermarket, or I open a letter in a waiting room to find his new bus pass complete with frail, faintly smiling picture. 

The tears are a marvel, unlike any I have shed before, but the pain they bring with them is overwhelming and I long for an end to these days of sorrow.

History Lesson

Finally, after seven years of saving, work begins on the house. The builders strip the walls revealing dark blue wallpaper, resplendent with a late 50's geometric design, and in the back room, under layers of woodchip wallpaper, vibrant orange paint shouts its 70's heritage. The cream and dusty pink preferred by the previous owner is now a memory. And not a pleasant one. The plaster is horsehair and lime; the dust horrendous, but as I sit in the midst of this mess, I see this house's past through the decorative choices made by those, probably long dead, who used to live here.