The Shoulders of Atlas

I woke at three minutes past the hour to the sound of sirens, coming closer, not passing further away. Tuesday has dawned now, cool and bright, much like Saturday. No news to quell my smouldering worry, but still it rains.

The house is still. Even the canary’s joyous trill has ebbed into what feels like mournful respect. I have been holding this vigil for days now. Today there will be news, I feel it. It will not be for hours yet, but there will be news. I mutter a silent incantation, cursing the fact that I live on the opposite side of the globe.

Peeling back the covers, I step over to the chair on which some clothes have been draped. It’s too cold to be heading out in only trunks. I find a Hanes shirt that’s relatively clean and pad my way into the kitchen.

She’s already awake and working on the medium sudoku in the newspaper. I walk to her and kiss her forehead before continuing to pour myself some coffee. Vapours bearing the tantalising aroma of caffeine waft skyward.

“Are you going to Mrs. White’s funeral?”

Mrs. White was the grandmother (and grandmother-in-law) of two of my close childhood friends. The three of us (meaning her, her husband Trevor and I) were all at school together, but I’ve had naught to do with them in the eight intervening years. My attendance will be conspicuous, almost unwarranted, and I would rather it not be.

“No, I don’t think so. But I will be going on Thursday.”


It sounds ghoulish that I choose to attend one over another; and even worse when I admit that the funeral I will be attending will be covered by the media, and the other will not. But Thursday marks the state funeral of one of the old guard of the party. I’ll need a shave and a haircut, but it’s important I attend.

I have somehow digressed there. To return to my topic: I never make my promises lightly, and there have still been some that I’ve broken, but on this you have my word: I will pick you up as your knees surrender to your tears. I will tend your wounds. I will even bear you to a safe place if I must. The rest of my life can meander into irrelevance until your eyes are dry.

You asked me “Can you cut a diamond?” It’s a somewhat disturbing question that lingers in the answering. I must frame my answer carefully. I picture you leaning on the balustrade of your balcony, watching those nightly fireworks, allowing the words to fall from your honey-softened lips and curl on the breeze. “Wherefore art thou Romeo?” I think not.

The answer is no, I cannot. I possess neither the desire nor the malice to refine something that I already regard as perfect, though this is hardly the time for such talk. It may not be my ‘job’ to know your moods and cater to your each and every need, but I wish you would at least share some of the burden, for I have the shoulders of Atlas.