A rocket ship will bring her home

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A rocket ship will bring her home

You can’t imagine what will come after your life is seized by the reality that your child is dead. You don’t know the pain will get worse. You don’t know how dark the nights will be between the hours of 1am and 4am, when your rational self will be taken over by an imposter who imagines all the ways that you and everyone you love is going to die.

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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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The intense and the ugly

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The intense and the ugly

Six years and it’s all come full circle. I remember it all and the tinge of sadness that constantly lingered has erupted into a volcano. I find myself doing the usual retracing of steps, reading of emails, counting of days. I can go on and on about what was, and it still won’t change what is. So, the tears remain at the base of my eyes and the ache grows inside me, because surely it has been long enough? Surely.

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The aftershocks

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The aftershocks

It’s hard to inspire, or to stuff down the hard feelings, when my sense of security has a crack in its foundation. Nothing feels safe or guaranteed anymore. Chaos rears its ugly head at families and homes every day, and I know mine is fair game even though we’ve been struck by lightning already. My ears are always searching for the acknowledgement of chaos (e.g., “hopefully” instead of “definitely”) when I listen to plans and assumptions for the future.

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