Women and Loneliness; a series.

The older I become, the more I recognise loneliness in the women around me. It almost seems a universal experience. One that every women will come to know for a season, or a lifetime. Memories that once puzzled or amused me, make sense. Words unspoken hold a deeper hue. Answers in the colours I was not mature enough to see, or had yet to feel.

Over my Autumn stuck abroad in Madeira I shared a short series on Instagram that many connected with which I've collated below. The following posts will speak on memories, thoughts and understanding that have come in recent times. Enjoy.

P.I

I would always hear my Mum talking in the kitchen.

This quiet hum beneath the tv, my book or whatever else I was doing.

I never understood it, so I would go and watch.

And there she was

Cooking

Cleaning

Mutterings collecting under her breathe.

She never heard me watch; watching holds a sound.

I remember her distinct face, often gazed outside of the window, washing the dishes, whispers.

The minutes pass as I tried to work out what she was doing.

‘Who are you talking to, you’re always talking to yourself’?

I thought it was funny.

I didn’t understand loneliness then.

‘Oh just thinking, thinking of conversations’ she half laughed.

I screwed my eyes and tilted my head.

Strange, I thought.

I didn’t understand loneliness then.

Didn’t understand how it manifests in unhappy marriages and monotony.

Didn’t understand my Mother was a whole woman before she belonged to me. A mind holding vast landscapes I couldn’t see.

P. II

“Just hmm, yeah, okay”. Grandma gestured to Grandad in the living room. “You know sometimes I go weeks without having a proper conversation with a soul!” she exclaimed, half joking, half outraged.

Another day we were in the supermarket. Grandma’s chatting away to the nice girl on the checkout, makes a passing joke about how Grandad was useless with packing the vegetables so she just does it herself now. “He would always put the tomatoes at the bottom of the bag. Bloody black and blue by the time we unpacked!”

As we walk down to the bus stop she tells me,

“Sometimes thats the only time I ever really talk to someone. When Maureen [the neighbour] is away. I go to town, do the shopping. Your Grandad just sits in front of the tv in that chair watching the cricket all day.”

“Just hmm, yeah, okay.”

She changed the subject to a lighter note. There was a shine in her eyes as she said how much she loved having us round in the summers. Someone to talk to, have fun with.

I never thought of what life was like when we weren’t there. Everything seemed sunny in that cosy house and beautiful conservatory overlooking the sea. Only warm childhood memories there, for me.

I never noticed distance between them. They were good friends. Talked and laughed together. Walked side by side. My Grandad was kind, funny. My favourite person. I never thought about how, when we were there, most of the conversations centred around us.

What happens when the children have left the nest, when the grandchildren aren’t visiting. No one else to bring joy to the home, no one else to be distracted by. Less people to talk about. Just the person you chose to spend a lifetime with. Just your mind, and the mind that finds you. What then?