My life is currently half of a beloved Hugh Grant movie: one wedding and one funeral in the past month. The only difference is I am nowhere near as slutty as Andy McDowell.
It’s ironically contradictory; I’ve bore witness to the start of a new life and the death of one with nothing but my own sick soul to remind me that only one of these events is something I’m guaranteed to be an active participant in.
It’s hard to think that a month ago I was full of red wine and dancing barefoot in a party dress. I was toasting the bride and groom and laughing-mouth wide and eyes closed- as I spun for the stars, the world and its people that had made me so uncontrollably happy.
I spent this afternoon crying mascara-stained tears and feeling guiltily thankful that I was still able to reach out and feel the pulse of my mom’s wrist. I can still turn and recognise my cheekbones and my eye shape staring back at me, very much alive and responsive to my childlike emotions.
I have yet to feel a loss like that. I have yet to experience the feeling of having a heart so heavy I can’t pick it up and bring it with me. The universe still needs to bestow on me a tragedy I can never come back from.
Last month my heart was drunk on good spirits and music, today it’s sober and very much aware of how fragile joy and the people that come with it are.
We are no longer invincible.