The state of being happy, especially in a high degree; bliss.
A source of happiness.
Tomorrow morning I get onto a plane to come and see you.
Seven years ago, you’ll recall that I did the same. I was the ghost. Fragile. I had no skin. No identity. None of the necessary structures. I’d lost my enthusiasm and confidence, including my ability to manufacture any. But I knew it was time to salvage something from the wreckage. So I got myself a job. A title. An identity. A purpose.
I knew I needed to get my head straight before I re-entered an impatient world that had not even blinked as mine crashed, and demanded the nerve and resolve I’d lost. And so I decided to spend a week with you.
I’d always marvelled at your ability to immerse yourself in life and engage it with all your senses. You’d fought so hard to keep it the first time around. And you seemed determined to extract as much from it as you could.
The instant I saw your beaming smile the bone numbing sadness I’d been lugging around for months lifted. Your delight is contagious.I felt at ease with myself and the world. That’s our relationship: easy and uncomplicated. No agendas. No ancient aching resentments demanding to be heard.
It also did help that you live in the most beautiful city in the world. It is almost impossible to gaze at THAT mountain and the sea and continue to feel low.
We sat under the stars, under the vines, and on the beach. We drank wine and ate glorious food. We spent most of our waking hours enjoying the majesty and beauty of being alive.
Between you let me purge. You endured my exhausting, repetitive, dramatic, compulsion to expel the hurt and shock. You didn’t interrupt. You didn’t instruct. You didn’t try to pad the awkward silences and reality with platitudes or small talk. You didn’t shepherd the conversation to your own suffering. You just listened: the purest form of generosity and wisdom.
So here we are seven years later, and unthinkably I’m coming to do the same. To hold your hand and heart as you mourn the loss of your own dreams and hopes.
Please let me do a good job. Please let me be strong. And don’t let’s ruin it all when it comes time for me to leave. I cannot bear to say that unspeakable word that has kept me awake since the news of your cruel and ruthless diagnosis became real.
“No more words. We know them all, all the words that should not be said.
But you have made my world more perfect.”
― Terry Pratchett