Virginia Woolf’s death, March 28, 1941
Another year to search though those feelings.....
Darkness falls as I wander into the library in search of her diary. I reach for the light switch, but change my mind. I know where the book is, I have her in the bookcase, top shelf, on the left.
My hand skims the edges of the bindings; it touches the one I want. I know this the moment I let out a cry. My finger tips sting, and a vibration is sent up my arm. My chest constricts, and my heart starts to pound.
The tears begin. One by one, the feelings start anew. I step back for a second, blinded now; I shut my eyes and quickly grasp hold of the book.
The tears flow
No, not tears, a river
Tight, I hold tight to this book in my hands; I cannot drop this book, her last words would fall. I would fall. It feels as though her words are searing my skin, but the tighter I hold onto them, the tighter I feel the constriction clenching the beat in my chest. My heart stops, skips a beat, and then moves on to a familiar tempo again.
Down to the river
Faster and faster
An overwhelming flood of anguish invades my unsuspecting soul. No words can capture this feeling, never, no, never! But I try.
Sobbing, and gasping for breath, it is useless.... I no longer can hold onto this book. I cannot, I simply cannot!
My hands and heart burn, until I push her away
I let the book fall to my bed
Turning my back to this pain, I walk the other way
I hear the bombs in the distance, or is it the thunder in the sky? Or is it the roar of the river of tears invading my mind? There is no escaping this death that I feel around me, just holding her words, the words that scald my hands.
Again, another year
Her death comes near
My greatest fear
Why, tell me why, why do I feel this sorrow?
How, tell me how, how can I live another year
Or even ‘til the morrow?