All posts tagged: loss

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 …

Grief

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 …

Bill

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 …

Whistonwick

“I’ve been thinking.” Hannah’s head lifted from her chest as her grandfather spoke. “Whistonwick church is rather quiet, rather peaceful wouldn’t you think?” “I suppose.” said Hannah. She rolled her neck experimentally and hissed. She should have taken her mother up on that neck support cushion thing that always seemed to be somewhere on her person. It may have been the most horrendous colour in existance, and smelt oddly like onions, but at least it would have saved her another cricked neck. “You don’t get many people trudging around Whistonwick anymore.” continued her Grandfather. “Bit of a sleepy place now and it seemed so… well not busy as such, but busier, back when I was a kid I mean. I suppose you must think that was centuries ago.” he chuckled. The laughter shifting, morphing into lung lurching chokes which sent Hannah onto her feet. “Easy, easy.” she soothed. “Here, the nurses left you some water earlier.” Her grandfather scowled at the plastic cup she presented him with. “You would think they’d let me have whisky. …

Upon The Fingers Of One Hand

You can count them on one hand, those ones that mean the most care the most put up with the most.   You can gather acquaintance like confetti, but there are always gaps between fingers where people fall through and when the wind sweeps by it will leave you with empty palms.   Those ones who cling on, who can be counted on one hand are the ones who’ll scale mountains, dig beneath oceans, trek over desert and parachute in over enemy territory.   All for the sake of standing in the background to push you forwards, when the spotlight seems too bright.  

Questions?

What do you see that I cannot? Some purity within this old rot? But why should it encompass me – When it is not what I can see? And what deserves attention so – When it drags far from life’s full flow? Should I be here both blind and mute? Would a parchment skin better suit? For I see darkness in your light, Have no true faith in greater might, And where once I could find your eyes… I see that now but glass resides.