Why do I allow myself to relive those times? The World War II years from 1939 to 1945 pale and are of no consequence compared to the shattering of my illusions, the ruin of trust, the loss of the man I idealized, his rejection, my despair.

The opened wounds bring back the dreams, from which I awaken with the taste of gall, and the hopeless agony of replayed scenarios.

We are in our bedroom. Lawrence, removed from my distress, remote and unapproachable, unntouched by the mute suffering I was enduring. He was dressing, in readiness to go – always, he is about to leave me. There is breakfast to prepare. Somewhere in the house, the children to be readied for school. I am rooted, unable to coordinate my limbs to do the bidding of my mind, the routine of supervising their dress, toilet, prepare breakfast.

He looks at me with his black brows quirked. He knows. He knows me very well. When I try to force the words, he knows that his cold gaze will start me stammering, and I cannot go on. How can he do this to me? I’d written him a note, begging him for the sake of what we had once shared together, to explain, to comfort me, to reassure me that we could talk together. He made no answer to my pathetic appeal. “Did you read my note?” “Will you be home tonight?”

It is as though he does not hear me. He turns away, and is gone. I am alone, confused, numb with grief. And, as consciousness returns, I open my eyes to assure myself I am awake. And the dread, the desolation, the weight in my heart, the taste of bitterness in my throat stays, keen and sharp and acrid, as if it were no dream, but truly happened last night, instead of forty years ago.

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