Intersection (ii)

I am riding along the bicycle path. I have just said goodbye to my one and only child, the child who was clutching his chest in pain and fear a couple of days ago, and who was fine only minutes later. He is riding across the oval to his school. I have only said goodbye for the day. I hope. No, I know.

I am riding along the bicycle path. As he rode away I put my Shuffle earpieces in my ears and switched on. Let's Dance to Joy Division started, loud and clear. I stopped, paused the music, and called this out to my boy, who laughed joyfully and started singing it aloud as he bumped over the grass. It's his favorite song. I started again and rode, hard, pumping my feet to the beat of the song. I feel the upbeat edge of the music, enjoy the damp misty coolness of the grey morning.

I reach where the bicycle path crosses the road, and the pedestrian lights are just about to change in my favour. There is a woman with a dog, about to take a chance against the traffic, not knowing that the lights are orange. I sweep past her in the middle of the road when something about the side of her face makes me glance back. It is someone I haven't seen for years, but have thought about constantly.

Across the road I stop and say her name. She looks at me properly and we recognise each other, happily. We stand off to one side of the path, and start to chat. Last time I saw her she had moved a long way north, about as north as you can go, almost. She was fast-tracked for success in the art world, with her amazing paintings. I ask her about her art, how it's going.

She answers blithely, telling me that she hasn't done much for about two years, how she's re-prioritising her life. I listen to her, and I know that she's trying not to say out loud what I already know -- that two years ago she lost her child at the moment of birth. I read it in the paper at the time, heard it from mutual friends, and didn't know how to get in touch with her. I cried then for her, couldn't imagine going through nine months of joy to end in such a way, wondered how to convey this to her, and then -- typical -- got caught up in my own life.

I can't let her struggle to find non-committal things to say. I tell her that I heard about her baby, and how sorry I am about it. Suddenly the bicycle path and everything on it disappears. We are in a bubble of relief, sorrow and truth. We swap stories about miscarriages, bastard doctors and helplessness. We tear up, we hug. I pat the dog, who looks as though she can listen compassionately forever.

The art has stopped. Time has stopped. She is gardening, all she can bring herself to do. Her partner, a very good man, suffers as well, but carries on. I can only guess he feels helpless and work keeps him on track. I tell her that I've had enough, I've drawn a line in the sand, that I've decided to disengage with my body and get on with stuff; she looks at me sadly and says that she's not quite ready for that yet. I can see that she has unfinished business, that she won't be free of it until she either gets resolution or someone else draws a line for her. All I can do is wish her peace, whichever way it goes.

We sense that much time has passed. We start making excuses; we don't make too many promises to catch up, but it's good to know we both exist now in the same city. We will see each other, and each time will be good and meaningful. It is hard to move away from her, I'm so there in the moment. But eventually I break out of the bubble, put the earpieces back in, and resume pedalling. Suddenly I don't feel the upbeat, it's the words that hit me.

Let's dance to Joy Division,
And celebrate the irony,
Everything is going wrong,
But we're so happy,
Let's dance to Joy Division,
And raise our glass to the ceiling,
'Cos this could all go so wrong,
But we're so happy,
Yeah we're so happy,
So happy,
Yeah we're so happy,
So happy,
Yeah we're so happy.

I turn it up, to drown out the thoughts, and ride.