I only live in Whitchurch, a couple of miles away from the lake. But my health has deteriorated so much that coming here just isn’t feasible most of the time.
I miss being well enough to come to the lake. I miss watching the swans and the ducks. I miss seeing how happy they make passers-by. I miss being able to watch the water flow and ebb and I miss how peaceful that made me feel.
I miss standing by the railing and looking down into the water, taking a few mindful moments for myself. I miss the physical capability of being able to walk around the lake and the rose garden. I miss the trees silently swaying in the breeze.
I miss being able to drive here from my house. I miss the feeling of my shoes on the ground. I miss the mud. I miss the puddles. I miss the flower beds. I miss the pavement. I miss seeing the boats. I miss meeting a friend for a stroll and a cuppa.
I miss taking lots of photos of the lake through the seasons. I miss the clock tower and how it made me think about the Scott expedition. I miss the plaques on the benches, telling the stories of other people who loved the lake.
I miss sitting on a bench. I miss enjoying my surroundings and feeling the air on my face. I miss the runners, the mums, the prams, the families, the communities, the chit-chatter and laughter.
I miss myself maybe most of all. Although, when I did all these things, I was by no means healthy, I would still have to spend several hours in bed recovering. I miss that girl who didn’t think she could become as ill as this.
