This text was written as I learn to live with Long Covid and attempt to regain my creativity. All the posts and some more info can be found here.
The blue cypress at the back of the garden shivers and sways under the force of the wind. The wooden fence trembles and holds. Gusts of sixty miles per hour whirl in the garden and around the neighbourhood. Storm Darragh has landed on the shores of Britain in the night. I woke briefly to the rushing sound of its song but promptly fell back to sleep. In the morning, the wind has mostly abated where I live but for the angry gusts. I had planned to visit the supermarket for last minute supplies for my birthday meal on the following day but that would have to wait. I am not about to cycle in traffic with gusts that can slam me into cars. My partner leaves for work and I settle in a slow rhythm of reading and playing video games.
In the garden, two magpies land in the grass in the early afternoon. I pause the game and watch them ruffle through the too long grass. I had meant to cut it before now, to let it rest for the winter but the strength to do so never materialised. It is okay. I let the thought pass. There will be better days. The magpies fly off, feathers ruffled by the wind, their body bumbling less elegantly than usual. I return to the game and think of how different this birthday is from any other I've had. I am not excited for it. For years, my birthday has marked the start of my yearly reflection on the year gone by, a turning of a page in the book of my life that I welcome and embrace. This year though, I let it slide past me. I do not want to linger in the pain of 2024. There is joy there too, plenty of it, but the pain is still too raw and too vivid. I am doing better, just about. I am afraid to look too hard at the months gone and be swept into the pain and grief of them. So I don't. I carry on playing my game, levelling up my characters in preparation for a big boss fight. I'm probably too overpowered by now anyway but it's easy and pleasant to fly across the valleys and mountains of this made up world and to get lost in the simplicity of a story of love and loss and friendship and easy to define good and evil.
My partner returns from work and we hurry to the supermarket to gather lemons, corn flour, sugar, salad, and other last minute groceries for my birthday meal. I have invited my partner's sister and her partner over for a tartiflette and mousse au citron. We eat a light soup for dinner and settle into our rewatch of the Pretender. We're in the middle of series two and my partner is still indulging me even as the show starts to delve into the weird and unrealistic. This show has carried me through most of my life. I once knew all four seasons and two films off by heart in both French and English. Those days of obsession are long gone but I still find comfort with Jarod, Miss Parker, Sydney, Broots, and the rest of the cohort at The Centre.
We go to bed late and wake up late. Stress bubbles inside of me as I face a morning in the kitchen, cooking. I like to cook but this is all a bit too much for a morning's work and I worry I am pushing it, not pacing and resting as I should. Still, I beat egg whites and mix it to the lemon cream I have prepared. It feels too liquid but it seems fine as well. Before I turn my attention to the potatoes and onions to prepare the tartiflette, I pause to peer at the edge of the window. I have noticed a spider has settled there, weaving a cocoon of what I suspect to be eggs. I'd invite them into the warmth but they might not like it. I let them be and return my attention to food. I peel and chop, my eyes prickle and cry from the onions. The cheese has returned from France with me after my grand mother's funeral in October and is now more than ready to be eaten. It melts effortlessly on the hot potatoes as I lay them in the oven dish. The kitchen carries a distant smell of childhood and family and for a brief instant I forget everything.
The guests arrived, we hug and settle in the living room around mugs of tea before the bottle of Crémant is open and the food served. I had intended to snap images of the meal, of the table, of the guests, but I forget. We talk and laugh and catch up. We talk of long covid and it's okay. I do not dissolve into tears or lie about it. I do not quite yet have all the words for it but it's becoming easier to tell people about how bad it can get. We talk some more about family, about Christmas plans, about the weather. It's easy and every now and again, I sit back and watch the three other talk. My cheeks are red from warmth and a glass of the wine. I'm comfortable.
After the mousses have been eaten and another pot of tea brewed, I am handed my presents. Books and inks and travel tea pot and mead and chocolate and I am overwhelmed by the kindness I am being shown. I did not expect so much, every present a care package of sort and it's all I can do not to cry. My partner's sister and her partner leave with one last hug from us. My partner and I settle into the rhythm of dishes before collapsing onto the sofa, our bellies full and bodies lethargic from so much cheese. I glance at the gifts I have laid on the table and smile. Each item is a promise of a moment to myself, a moment of peace, a moment of joy, a promise of better days right here for me to grasp.
