All posts tagged: grief

Find A Room, Make Yourself At Home

All corridors run back to you, though they say loss gets less the longer you let it sit. And you’ve been sitting here, in this hollow you left for a while now Just a slither of yourself with no new words to say that might explain this empty. And barricades don’t keep the door from banging open, every time a storm or gentle breeze blows in. It only takes a name, or a memory, to raise your shade. So I given up airing out this room with all your secrets. Leave another hole in the wall the same shape as my fist, pretend I haven’t when the moments leaves. Re-watch you walk in sit down pick up your drink. Re-watch you pick up your drink.  

Almost A Year On

Some days it’s like you’ve only just slipped through my fingers. I’m still grasping for the tail-end of a thread, trying to haul you back up, back to me and everyone you left. I feel guilty for the hollowness in my chest, as if I don’t deserve to miss you this much. I don’t believe I deserve to miss you this much because I should have realised the acres of spaces you occupied inside my head and heart before the phone call rang in from your mother and every worst fear was came crashing in like thunder.     For John

Thunder Storm Man

Thunder always precedes the storm. Like you, wild and roaring, an opening show with the rest of you hiding beyond the horizon where the clouds were darker packed and swirling lightening flaring in the rips that couldn’t be sewn together. Gone in a flash. I haven’t been writing very much for this blog over the last few weeks so thank you to those readers who keep coming back. Every time I sit down at the moment to write, I end up thinking of John and he ends up in my writing which is why I’ve been so absent. I was going to dedicate a post about mental health to him today since it’s World Mental Health Day but in the end I couldn’t face writing it. Part of the problem with sitting down to write and him being the only thing I want to write about, is that it makes me want to curl up and ignore everything. It makes the world seem unreal and unbalanced. John was diagnosed with a borderline personality disorder a while back …

You Always Danced Alone

Your soundtrack never made sense. The songs lined up oddly, their lyrics a mismatch of words too quickly spoken, driven on by you racing to catch up with the world moving around you. I have tried to be the mooring post, I have tried to be your life raft, I wish that had been enough. I wish I could tell you that I’m sorry for ever being angry at you. Daily Post Melody This week I lost someone I cared about. It was sudden and unexplained. It’s still sinking in.


The grief felt guilty. Clawing it’s way up, dragging lung and trachea with it, it seemed confused. Why now, why this loss, why not some other more easily explained? They had through the same trauma, felt their own grief and worry, dealt with it in their own way. They had not been there to see the way in which you dealt, the way in which you coped, the things that kept you grounded. When my Grandfather was very ill a few years ago I stayed at my Gran’s to look after the dogs and my Great-Gran while she spent her time with Grandad at the hospital. My Grandfather’s accident was probably the most traumatic experience of my life so far, and he was very, very lucky to have pulled through. During that time at my Gran’s there weren’t many people to talk to, and instead it was the older dog Bessy who provided the most comfort and reassurance by simply cuddling up next to me on the settee or being in the room. Last night …


I remember you warning me about candles. It was Christmas, (well just before) and I’d used a cardboard trophy box to make my own advent calendar. The sort with a candle for the Sundays and two more for Christmas Eve and the event itself. I think Joanna had made one too and we brought them to show you and Granny, proud of ourselves for putting them together.   You let us light them. But probably only because everyone was stood there and if something went wrong there were grownups ready to leap in and save the day.   I learnt about France after you were gone. Twenty-one with two friends and bikes roaring across the country by yourselves. Gran found the picture, asked for it to be framed.   Seeing you young is strange. It reminds me that my Grandfather was not my father’s father or the man my gran married, he was someone else. Someone who I never saw because I was born too late and the sickness had set in and children that …


Conrad taught us to distrust our own minds. Caught up in the spin of some imaginary turmoil; he forgot that the rest of us were placed within his reach, waiting for some reassurance that this was not how it ended. Confirmation was never his strong point. Convinced we were the enemy, it became locked doors and unanswered phone calls. Coleen visited once a week only to find the casseroles she baked still cling-filmed at the back of the refrigerator. Considering it was twenty years before the funeral summons; I didn’t expect to cry when we carried him into the church. (Prompt: Each line must begin with ‘C’)


“Tomorrow morning, that footstool goes!” And I’m left to listen to my own voice’s echo, As it bounced back off half-painted walls And round corners without the skirting- Next weekend’s promise still etched in pencil. But faded past the point of a stranger’s notice, And even your mother has stopped commenting, On the second landing’s crooked light fixing. I must have asked you a hundred times before, To throw out that footstool in the hallway. Bought at some junk shop, three streets away, And just awkward enough, so that I stub my toe, Every single time I walk through the dam door! The same door you painted pink to annoy John, Next door’s tenant with a grey tweed suit, And a hate for anything even mildly creative! God he hated you! With a passion unmatched. At least he did- Last week he said how he’d admired you. He said that you artwork was unparalleled! You would have snorted in his face, And asked him “what else you would expect? You were a genius with a …

My Lady

A diamond noose stole the breath from her chest, Where ribs caved beneath creaking whalebone corsets And her hands lay useless against the curve of her waist. An hourglass standing with each grain assigned, A time and a place, a husband, no thought for her mind. To be instructed and moulded into icy precision Because in her heart the royal blue ran in vain And her prison was forged before birth by name. Fairy tales make pretty the twists of her life As she’s wound into tapestries, the good, obedient wife. Let those who weave take for granted stillness in her lips And forget to check the eyes which dip from sight, For those who’s power falls too far for her to reach Means she must hide hide her only freedoms in deceit. She’ll whisper beneath men’s ears and lace their tongues With words that from their own have not be strung, For what do women in titles’ prisons have? But the babes from further shackles brought, And hopes that scheming years shall dull the …