Block by block these 6 million minutes have piled up around me. Some I have deliberately moved and sorted and arranged, compiling them into something I can live with and in, a story I can tell about what happened to us and how we carried on. Some blocks stay strewn around, rubble, minutes I could do nothing with or in but cry and rage, when there was no sense to be made.
Read MoreBut in the depths of this despair,
I find a flicker, a light, a flare.
For though you linger, dark and grim,
Love's eternal flame will never dim.
i always think you’re dying.
isn’t that the silliest thing?
you have long been dead
and in the ground
What if we didn’t celebrate her birthday this year?
This is the treacherous, traitorous thought that runs through my head this early January, as the rain falls ceaselessly and the gleam and glitter of Christmas fade into the background.
Read MoreI have a recurring daydream. The details and logistics vary but the core fantasy is the same: time travel exists. Sometimes it’s a new scientific discovery like a time machine that people can opt to use within set parameters. Sometimes it’s a secret ability that only I access for some mysterious reason like in Back to the Future. Always my goal is to prevent my daughter’s death.
Read MoreI used to worry about the days somewhere far in the future when I might not think of her every hour, or even every day. I used to think that when those days arrived it would mean I had failed her, had forgotten her, had left her trapped in some kind of terrible limbo, neglected, lost for real. It’s not like that, though, and I wish I could’ve known that all those years ago. Someone probably told me. I know I didn’t believe them.
Read MoreBereaved parents of lost babies and potential of all kinds: come here to share the technicolour, the vividness, the despair, the heart-broken-open, the compassion, and the other side of getting through this mess called grief.
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Parents of lost babies and potential of all kinds: come here to share the technicolour, the vividness, the despair, the heart-broken-open, the compassion we learn for others, having been through this mess — and see it reflected back at you, acknowledged and understood.
Thanks to photographer Xin Li and to artist Stephanie Sicore for their respective illustrations and photos.
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