The beauty surrounding him tried to distract him, but he could not escape. He was alone. He wanted to tell her about the way the water and the sky merged, with only the passing boats to indicate that there was even a place where the ocean stopped and the sky began. No he didn’t want to tell her, he wanted to be able to show her, share it with her, hold her as they looked out across the water.
The anger started as a distant anxious knot in his stomach. It rumbled and gurgled and he gasped to catch his breath as his heart-beats cramped. He felt the solid demon inside drag itself up from the pit of his stomach, clenching his chest and squeezing the air from his lungs. It shuddered and swelled into his throat and through to his finger tips. From nowhere the anger burst out of his mouth, pushing his hands in to a punching mass of fists and knuckles pounding the air, the rock, the sand. He fell to his knees, weak from this strangling fear of lost control. Yet the anger raged on like a tide of jagged emotions ripping through his frail old body. He wept. He shouted. He buried his head into his hands and he shook.
He’d finally been able to let out everything he’d been holding inside since that fateful day. He’d wanted to grieve, to shout and scream, but he’d been held back by a sense of denial, of accepting that reality was real and that there was no going back, even though there seemed no way of moving forward. To grieve is to accept. To accept is to understand. To understand is to let go.
George couldn’t let go.