It isn't the knowing that she's alone. Nor even the being alone. It can feel good, and it can be good, to be alone. It's the knowing that at the end of it, she'll still be alone. She's alone right now and she will continue to be alone. She must seek someone out to break that aloneness, and then take care not to overstay her welcome. It's the knowing that there will be no one at the end of the day to hear of her adventures and discoveries.
The walking alone isn't the bad thing. It's picking up that shard, and knowing there's no one to show it to later, someone who used to be so pleased and interested.
It isn't that there's no one to share these excitements with. It's that there's no one special, no one who asks, who really wants to know. There's no one whose eyes light up while internal laughter lifts the corners of his lips upon hearing the antics of dog and woman on the shore.
Sure, there are friends out there. And they're sympathetic. And they'd listen. They might even find a laugh in the story. But it doesn't really matter to them. It doesn't enrich their lives, hearing these small stories of small occurances. It fine if she shows up to chat, but it doesn't matter if she doesn't.
It isn't that she doesn't know people care. They do care, and she appreciates that. It's the knowing that she's just one of a bunch, just like all the other bananas on the branch. No one is waiting for her call. No one is waiting for her to come home. And she no longer has anyone to wait for either. She is no longer welcome to call.
It isn't that she doesn't appreciate the sympathy. Let anyone tell me that sympathy or even empathy takes the place of knowing she's The One, she's special, she's looked for. Sure, they commiserate with the pain in the night, but the balm that was there, the soothing hand, the exact amount of gentle understanding isn't there. It's the knowing that it never will be there.
It isn't that she thinks she's the only one to suffer this grief. She knows others have too, and worse. The knowledge does not lessen that pain. For her, the thought of a group of grievers is not relief. If anything, it a vision of larger pain. Too many of us thrust into a sadness we didn't expect to bear.
It isn't that she can't bear it. She can. It isn't that she can't cope. She can. It isn't that she's starving, or dying, or devastatingly alone in all the world. She knows there are worse sufferings. But this is her suffering. This is her, knowing someone is out there, not alone, but choosing to not be with her, and she is alone. There is no pulling up her bootstraps. There is no tossing it all aside. There is sorrow, loneliness, existing, waiting, healing and reopening of wounds.
There is the knowing that once, one person made her feel unique in all the world. And now he's gone.
