Page 100 of One More Day
I’ve been in my car for hours now with the heating on full blast, only getting out now and then to let George stretch his legs.
I don’t know what I expected by coming here again today, but it’s where I need to be so I can clear my head and think of where I want to go next in life. I can’t keep hitting dead ends. I can’t keep pretending. And I can’t keep suppressing my feelings for Charlie, because I am punishing him as much as I’m punishing myself.
A bit of space and a change of scenery works wonders.
More wise words from my grandmother echo in my mind. She was right, as always. A few hours by myself here in my favourite place is already helping me think straight.
It’s so quiet here. It is Christmas Eve after all, so everyone is busy with family life, getting ready for Santa tonight or for a big festive feast tomorrow. I think of my niece and nephew, so young and innocent, and tears prick my eyes when I imagine how excited they will be for the big day tomorrow.They’ll be in matching pyjamas, they’ll go to bed extra early and they’ll be far too high on anticipation to sleep. I’m missing them so much.
And then I picture Charlie, who’ll have woken up well before now. I shouldn’t have packed my bags and left that note. I can see that now. But grief pushes us into corners sometimes. It puts words on our tongues and pain in our hearts that make us react in ways we wouldn’t have dreamed of before.
I so, so badly want to run to Charlie. I want to hide in the safety of his arms and never look back, but I need to be sure I’m strong enough to be the person he needs me to be in return. I need this space to think, to scream, to cry, all in the hope that I could accept that I’m allowed to be happy again.
And it’s working already.
The sound of the waves, the memories I hold on to about this place, the strength of the lighthouse which never buckles under all its strain. It just quietly does its job every day, all year round. It is solid. It is timeless. It is a creature of outstanding beauty, yet there’s nothing delicate about its bricks and mortar and steel. It’s a tower of strength, quite literally, and I know I still have a similar strength inside of me too.
I’ve learned so much from my week with Charlie at Seaview Cottage. I’ve learned the power of giving in the simplest of forms.
I’ve learned the power of a hug from the right person at the right time.
I’ve learned how goodness is what people do, much more than what they say.
I’ve learned the joy in having someone who cares enough to wish you goodnight.
I’ve learned the importance of saying sorry, of showing up to apologise, even when it doesn’t go your way.
I’ve also learned that by stepping out of our own lives for just a little while, we can see things from a different angle. We can learn to forgive ourselves for even the biggest mistakes. And that each of us have scaled mountains without knowing it.
I’ve learned that each day is a new start, a new chance, and a new time to start again.
I know that deep inside I am my own lighthouse.
I am hope. I am secure. I can weather any storm. I can stand tall and strong, no matter how the waves batter and crash against me, no matter how chaotic the world is around me, and no matter what challenges the changing elements of life bring my way.
I can dim my inner lanterns when I need to rest. I can shine brightly from within, and most of all I can beam my light for miles and miles to guide my own path and to help and protect others along their way.
I am my own lighthouse.
I turn on the engine of the car to leave at last, but just as I do so, something stops me. And then I see her.
A lonely figure walks past the car, towards the grassy banks and the white stone walls that line the drop of rolling rocks that lead to Fanad Lighthouse.
There’s a familiarity in the way she walks, in how tall she is, yet her demeanour is so small. She stoops beneath a blackumbrella, holding on to it with both hands, huddling under it as if she is clinging on to it for dear life. I haven’t seen her in almost four years.
I couldn’t face her, and I was told the feeling was mutual on her part.
It’s Evelyn, Michael’s mother, and the sight of her shuffling up the pathway towards her late son’s favourite place is enough to take my breath away.
I slowly open the car door, leaving George in the heat of the car, and I follow her.
She doesn’t hear me at first, so I call her name again.
‘Evelyn?’
But she keeps walking.
‘Evelyn! Wait, please. It’s me. It’s Rose.’
