Yesterday we moved from Benaulim to Anjuna in North Goa for our last week in India.
In the afternoon/evening we explored the beach. It’s quite different, as the beaches here are narrow, in coves between rocky headlands.
Fruit sellers wander the beach, offering fresh coconut, pineapple and mangoes.
One lady approached us. She wore a shabby sari and carried a large basket on her head. I couldn’t help notice as she walked that her knees were bent and swollen in what appeared to be an arthritic condition. It was almost beyond belief that this woman, who appeared perhaps in her 50s, could manage the load she carried with her legs in that state. But necessity must.
Simon helped her put the basket down as we said we'd like some coconut to drink. She deftly chopped the end off the coconut, put in a straw, and left her basket as we drank and she rushed around to encourage some of the other beachgoers to buy her wares.
When she came back, we started talking. She told us it was her birthday. I was very surprised to discover she was only 37. Her life has aged her prematurely.
Then she said her son, age 21, died last year.
And there on Anjuna beach under the swaying palm trees, we had a fellowship of bereaved mothers. I told her about my children and gave her the little picture visiting card of both of them. She was heartbroken at the loss of her boy and it was obvious her grief was still raw and confusing. She has two daughters but losing her son...
Simon made her a balloon flower because it was her birthday. Then a few children gathered and he made some balloon animals. One balloon burst in the process. She commented that life was like that; one moment you are here and then crash, it's over. One minute when would smile--she had to sell the fruit after all--and the next moment she would comment on her son. There wasn’t much I needed to say or could say. We understood each other.
Some of you reading this are part of the same sad fellowship. So you get it that one day I can be extolling the beauties of Goa and the next day weeping, my tears mingling with the salty waves, as the memory that Catherine left without saying goodbye suddenly flashes into my mind. Suddenly I'm overwhelmed; suddenly the waves are just too strong for me to cope with. It's as though I've only just realised it, though of course I've thought of this many times in the last 22 months.
No, the only ones who really "get it" are those who have faced a similar loss. The loss of a child, of children, is a unique pain. The fruits seller and I understood each other, and sadly, some of you too.
In the afternoon/evening we explored the beach. It’s quite different, as the beaches here are narrow, in coves between rocky headlands.
Fruit sellers wander the beach, offering fresh coconut, pineapple and mangoes.
One lady approached us. She wore a shabby sari and carried a large basket on her head. I couldn’t help notice as she walked that her knees were bent and swollen in what appeared to be an arthritic condition. It was almost beyond belief that this woman, who appeared perhaps in her 50s, could manage the load she carried with her legs in that state. But necessity must.
Simon helped her put the basket down as we said we'd like some coconut to drink. She deftly chopped the end off the coconut, put in a straw, and left her basket as we drank and she rushed around to encourage some of the other beachgoers to buy her wares.
When she came back, we started talking. She told us it was her birthday. I was very surprised to discover she was only 37. Her life has aged her prematurely.
Then she said her son, age 21, died last year.
And there on Anjuna beach under the swaying palm trees, we had a fellowship of bereaved mothers. I told her about my children and gave her the little picture visiting card of both of them. She was heartbroken at the loss of her boy and it was obvious her grief was still raw and confusing. She has two daughters but losing her son...
Simon made her a balloon flower because it was her birthday. Then a few children gathered and he made some balloon animals. One balloon burst in the process. She commented that life was like that; one moment you are here and then crash, it's over. One minute when would smile--she had to sell the fruit after all--and the next moment she would comment on her son. There wasn’t much I needed to say or could say. We understood each other.
Some of you reading this are part of the same sad fellowship. So you get it that one day I can be extolling the beauties of Goa and the next day weeping, my tears mingling with the salty waves, as the memory that Catherine left without saying goodbye suddenly flashes into my mind. Suddenly I'm overwhelmed; suddenly the waves are just too strong for me to cope with. It's as though I've only just realised it, though of course I've thought of this many times in the last 22 months.
No, the only ones who really "get it" are those who have faced a similar loss. The loss of a child, of children, is a unique pain. The fruits seller and I understood each other, and sadly, some of you too.
Hugs Abi
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