Things that Zig-Zag into the Distance

At ten past three, I go about the house turning on all the table lamps. The one in the hall, the two in the lounge. I tell myself it’s because I don’t like the shadowy feel of the place, white cloud looming at every window, but really I hope their glow might fill the emptiness.

I last heard from you at eleven. You were sitting in the airport in Düsseldorf, waiting for a plane to Malta, and then to Libya. I count the hours in my head and figure you’re in the air now. Somewhere over the Med.

The job came up quite suddenly. It was only yesterday morning you got the call. I can’t shake the feeling that this is my penance. I was a moody cow all weekend. I kept it up for three days before confessing, late on Sunday evening, that my writing wasn’t going well. ‘I’m thinking about giving up,’ I said. ‘What’s the point if it makes me unhappy?’ You looked at me a moment, and I’m sure you were thinking that things would be so much easier if this were true, but when you blinked, whatever future you’d been imagining vanished. ‘I reckon you’ll always need something to brood about,’ you said.

Sometimes I think you’re so full of love that I can only do us justice if I’m my best self all the time. I’ve spent the day feeling contrite, thinking over and over how much I love you and wondering if it’s a type of abuse – my being unhappy and making you feel it’s your fault.

Yesterday, coming back from dropping you at the airport in Inverness, I put the car radio on and turned the volume up, carefully arranged my jacket and bag over the vacant passenger seat. I had a headache – a knot between my eyes and the top of my nose, like my sinuses were blocked, and I felt that the knot was you, and that I was destined to carry you there for days. The radio lost its reception just after Altnaharra, which was around the same time I started crying. Nine years and I still cry every time you have to leave. I pulled over by a loch; I don’t know which one because I’m rubbish at remembering, and you weren’t there to tell me.

Loch and boathouse

It was already getting dark. No, not dark, lighter, the horizon bleaching to nothing and that morning’s rain shining in rivulets down the tar and chip road. I looked at the loch through my tears, and it seemed to me then to have this huge stillness – long and wide and so deep that everything around me – the endless heather, all the reeds, and the seedling conifers, the road, and every one of the passing-place signs that zig-zag into the distance, and all the hills – might tumble into it and be lost forever. In a way, that the loch could contain all that, and hold it muffled below its surface, felt right and just and maybe even inevitable, and perhaps it might take me too, perhaps the cold water creeping through the door seals would be just the thing to jolt me from these thoughts of you.


I turn all the lights on now, including the bathroom and bedroom, but it doesn’t help. The teaspoon clinks round my cup, and when I drop the bag into the bin, it thumps on to the other rubbish there and the swing lid thwacks back and forth; even the steps I take between sink and kettle are surprisingly heavy. The dog lies in the corner and I know I’m forcing him to listen to all this, to all this silence, and that he misses you too.

By the way, I should tell you that he chewed the trim on your new rubber boots after you left. It was your smell I guess that drove him to it, an unanswerable need to be closer to you. I know that feeling.

Tone and his love boot
Tone and his love boot

Sitting here in the quiet, I decide something. If my moods ever get too much, if I’m pushing you away, I’ll go back to that loch, the one with the boathouse, back to its stillness – I’ll drive there with the contents of my desk drawers spilling over the seats (remember, I told you, it’s so deep it’ll hold everything), and I’ll stand and I’ll toss in my journals and my carefully labelled hardback notebooks.

As I’m thinking this, the feeling becomes irresistible, and I get out a pad to jot it all down – the lamps, and the loch, and the silence and you; I think about how I’ll tell it in the second-person present tense, and how I’ll structure it, and the fact is that my hand across the page is unstoppable, and I hope you won’t mind. I really hope you won’t mind.


16 thoughts on “Things that Zig-Zag into the Distance

    1. Thanks so much, Mary! If I could wish for my writing to achieve anything, ‘achingly beautiful’ would absolutely be it. Thanks so much for reading 🙂


  1. Ah, it’s there now -your latest post. Sorry for lateness in response.
    In actual fact I have been down in London for a week and never getting a quiet corner of the day to absorb and enjoy your latest piece not to mention a dying phone with poor battery. So, I decided to leave until I got home – to the splendid peace of the North.
    This is real heart on your sleeve writing Laura and quite beautiful – like a love letter.
    Thank you.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Dear Ian, I hope you had a good time in the city. I think you were lucky to get home before the snow – Paul is now on his way back from Libya and is stuck at Heathrow! Thanks as always for reading. Yes, I think it’s exactly a love letter, and I’m lucky to have such an understanding husband that he doesn’t mind me making my love letters public, hehe (though really I think he’s quite chuffed that all my writing is about him!) Stay warm, Laura


  2. HI Laura,
    I’m a bit late reading this,I just realised I don’t have you on ‘follow’ (SMI – social media ineptitude). A beautiful piece of writing, as always you have an eye for the right detail ( the swing lid thwacking back and forth). I used to travel a lot for work,so I am familiar with the dynamic. Glad to hear you didn’t dump it all in the loch!
    Enjoying “The Moth”!
    Best wishes for 2018…JIM

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Hi Jim, don’t apologise, I’ve been a bit slack with WordPress myself lately. I hope you and the family had a wonderful festive season! Looking forward to catching up with Slim soon, Laura

      Liked by 1 person

  3. Beautiful writing, as always. When I read your writing, I think of giving up as I’ll never be able to use words in the way you do xx ps you were in Inverness?! X

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Haha, I think of giving up because I will never be able to string enough of them together to make a novel, something you have achieved multiple times! (I was *kinda* in Inverness… there’s often a bit of journal cutting and pasting going on here… but hey, that’s the “arty” bit 😉 )

      Liked by 1 person

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s