It's late; my brain is caffeine-addled. The moon is almost full. The night is clear and shadows fill the room with a peace, of sorts.
The lack of shadow highlights the smoothness of one side of this bed. If I sit up, I can still identify the white lights of the hospital against the orange lights of the town. The view from this home has both comforted me and sickened me, in the past.
This home won't be mine much longer. Four more days at the most. Soon, someone else will watch the weather come in from the Channel, hiding or revealing the islands. Someone else will watch the fireworks on the quay.
Soon, there will be a new place for me. A new kitchen to feed people from. A new home for my books. A new home for my huge stripy blanket.
The shadows move slowly across the walls. How many nights has their progress been tracked? How many mornings have been spent watching the sky lighten?
This room hasn't known as many tears as perhaps it should have. Loneliness and sorrow are old friends but rarely given vent to, not here.
Which life do I wish I was leading? Married but poor, a carer and childless? Married, with children but having compromised who I am to get there? Divorced with children, having made the decision too late? Or as I am, single, financially solvent and able to plan a complete change of career almost at the drop of a hat?
The empty side of the bed looks emptier by this light. This wasn't what I wanted. On a different moonlit night, six years ago, I was all of a-flutter, did I have the time for him? If I knew then how it would end, would I still have made that choice? Would I still have said yes?
