I could write:
This morning my dolphin blood takes me to the sea before the sun is high. I am floating in the gently churning waves on a sandy spit just off the southwest tip of Tobago. The bulk of the bigger island Trinidad hovers on the western horizon. Pelicans circle and plunge. Boobies scream and gulls stall on the wind. It's tourist post card perfect. Even the Dash-8 airplanes coming in right over this edge of coastal land don't ruin the setting with bumblebee noise and petrol fumes - just remind us of the connected world.
Or, I could write today, this Sunday in August:
Even the full moon silvering the sea and the shushing waves could not calm the noisy drunk. He is shouting in the still of the fore day dawn. Where is the security? Who are those people on the jetty? What they doing there? It's not hard to believe in the Jekyll and Hyde story. But it's very hard to say my husband is an alcoholic and I have never known how to help him. I like my life. I like to drink. Every other word an expletive. This is no attempt to romanticise a difficult situation. He can barely walk this morning. He says he is bored, he needs another drink to shake the jitters. But I've asked the management not to serve him, they understand. He says that I belittle him. It's no victory just expedient.
He does not connect his addiction to the gaps in his life. He wants to be needed, he wants to wake up everyday to do something, but what? All I know is the pain inflicted on himself and those who love him and know the Jekyll politeness, more absent now. I do not know what caused his pain, or if indeed pain is prelude to his condition. I do know what it feels like to give up in the quiet lonely night. To have the sun rise on darkness that doesn't lighten.
Both are true in the same space. And for once my little blog homily doesn't circle back with a satisfactory ending. It's not asking for pity, or understanding. I prefer no responses to this. A piece of writing that ends instead in ellipsis ...