I am a talker, not a writer; I am well known (maybe even famous in my very small circle) for talking. Ask anyone who knows me and they will tell you – I love to talk, I talk loudly, I butt in on conversations, and I just love to hear people’s stories. I want to know who, where, what and when.
I embarrass my children by talking to strangers at the bus stop or in the supermarket. I talk to the homeless guy who lives outside our local 7-11.
I am sure this was what partly attracted my husband (a man of few words) to me, and 21 years later he still likes the fact that I am the voice of our family. Even though his eyes glaze over at least 4 or 5 times a week when I am telling him something.
I get that from my Mum.
BUT……..
Since she died 14 long, long months ago after a very short and unexpected illness, the talking thing seems to have left my life along with her.
Don’t get me wrong – I still talk (it’s in my DNA) but now I chit chat, I pass the time of day, I talk when I have to. I talk (hopefully) lovingly to my children. I talk at work; I talk to my husband, brother and sister.
It’s just not the same, because I can’t really talk about how I feel, which is wretched… an old fashioned word I know but it is I how I feel.