Madrugada

There are certain concepts, and even objects, which the English language, for all its richness, doesn't have a word for. One I think I've probably mentioned somewhere before, is the type of pull-down seat you sometimes find on trains or buses. There isn't a specific English word for such a seat, as far as I know, but there is one in French - strapontin - a word I find myself using occasionally, usually to the complete mystification of anyone I happen to be with. Another 'missing' word in English is one to specify the small, dark hours of the morning, which the Spanish call madrugada. The lack of an equivalent word came to my mind earlier this morning, when I was awake for an hour or so either side of 3:00, during which time I wrote the little thing that has appeared in Nephelokokkygia - it wasn't edited at all, and doesn't quite scan, but it's as near to poetry as I could manage at that time of day. It was inspired, if that's the right word, by the way my relationship with my daughter seems to be going at the moment - I'm finding it pretty hard to get in touch with her, as absorbed as she is with her romantic attachment, and, when we do speak, I'm definitely feeling a sense of distancing, of her moving away from the closeness we've had for most of her life. That's a natural, and good, thing, the child breaking away from the parent and establishing their own independent place in the world, but, given my lack of any other focus in my life, it's more difficult for me to come to terms with than might otherwise be the case. It seems to be a reprise of the process whereby my ex drifted away from me as soon as she found out she was pregnant - I'd been close to the centre of her life before that, for those first few years of our relationship, as she'd been utterly at the centre of mine, but once our daughter had been conceived, never mind born, the focus changed to 'her baby'. Ironically, in a way, it was the beginning of the end of our marriage - maybe many would see my need to be loved as much as I loved another as selfish, but I found it very hard to accept. Now it's happening again - my daughter became the centre of my universe as my relationship with my ex deteriorated, but I'm most assuredly not the centre of hers, and nor should I be, of course. Again, maybe it's pure selfishness, but I can't help feeling I'm going to be left with nothing, or, more to the point, no-one at all. It's a function of the bad decisions I've made in my life, I suppose, so there's only me to blame, but that doesn't necessarily make the experience any easier to cope with.

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B