Too close to see

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Too close to see

With age came missed milestones. His failure to develop started to become more obvious to us and we gradually began to see visions of his future. By now I knew that he would one day die, but I still couldn’t see his death. When readmitted to hospital that first time, I never imagined that I would go home without him. I didn’t. The second readmission was the same. So when I took him for a third time, I packed his supplies including his food and milk and drove him to emergency. By now I knew what to do.

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Of surf and seasons

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Of surf and seasons

I lie in bed and watch in contented silence as the clock turns over to midnight, two cherished living children asleep in my arms, and a gaping wound just as big as ever but which curiously few can still see. The ocean spits me back out and I heave a sigh of relief. Another round of grief's fury, survived. Eight months to recover before it begins again anew.

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On recordkeeping

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On recordkeeping

This here is a record. A record in time. December 2, 2019. Two thousand eight hundred and eighty-one days after I stepped away from that blinking cursor and a soon-to-be past life, one hand on my belly, willing her to move. I cue up the interview recording again. A moment where we are both laughing raucously at something only a bereaved mother a certain distance out can laugh at. And then we are serious again. We say his name. We say her name. We’re creating a record, carrying it forward, together.

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