Rubble

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Rubble

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.

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Absent presence

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Absent presence

I 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.

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Trauma and the odds

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Trauma and the odds

And anyway, those of you reading here will know: it’s not the numbers that matter anymore. Now that it’s been you, you know it’s always someone, that there’s a person behind those numbers, and hey, why shouldn’t it be you? I feel like I was trained, somehow, to imagine that it would always be someone else, that there was no reason it would be me. I think in 2023 we call that toxic positivity.

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Muddling through

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Muddling through

I used to think I was a good parent to a grieving child. We talked about sadness and anger, we played it out, we drew and sang and stomped when we needed to. And then - we stopped. I still say her name. I tell stories that start, “When I was pregnant with Anja….” But it’s not the same as it was when they were little and full of wonder about everything, including death.

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