June has arrived. It is my birthday month and I am giving myself some days off around the day. My best friend and I are the same age. We have been friends since we were 15 years old. That is a long time ago now. I was commiserating with her on our upcoming age, and was delighted when she abused me and told me we were actually a year younger than I thought!! Good news and I can’t believe I was so surprised. Dumbarse.
I am four years older than my dad when he died, thirty years older than dear Shelley. I would swap, in the blink of an eye, my time to give to her. I cannot do that and as I reflect on my life so far, I have much to be grateful for. Apart, is such a small word with a huge meaning for me. Apart for Shelley’s death, I am satisfied and grateful for my life as it is. I wish apart was not part of it at all.
(I think I will get myself another tattoo for my birthday. I have three already, one after my mother died, and two magnificent ones for Shelley. My next one will be something small that means strength to me, and honours my survival so far.)
I don’t wish I was any younger. I am at a place I enjoy, as much as I can, the people and things in my life. It is a good place to be, as good as it can be. The ever-gaping hole in my heart is no longer an enemy. It just is. There is something every day, which causes me to think of my darling daughter. It may be a young girl passing through the screening point at the airport, off on her OE or a mother with a young baby. One young woman had been crying and was still visibly upset when she came through to me. She said she was sad leaving her family but was excited and just had to do it. I encouraged her, all the time fighting off the desire to tell her not to go, to go back to her family. Instead I wished her well and hoped, more than anything that she would head off, enjoy her time and return safely to her family. That is what I want for everyone.
I have finished the house, deck and fence painting. Yay!! It looks bloody good, even if I do say so myself. I am now about to start doing a few things in the garden. A bit of spring cleaning and replanting. Then, this low maintenance home, (huh I sure was sucked in by that phrase!), should indeed be low maintenance. I will then have time to get stuck into my writing. I need time and peace to do that and it is almost here.
The writing process is a way of getting lost in my thoughts and feelings and of having some control over things. I control the words and the meaning for me, and hope that it all may mean something to others. In the end, it doesn’t matter if it doesn’t but I am encouraged by people that tell me they get something out of my humble efforts. That pleases me.
I have another dear friend, K, whose beloved son died a few months before Shelley. His death was long and slow, the result of an incredibly rare disease that wastes away your bones, (only 200 people in the world have had this). He was 18years old. Her family nursed him at home for the last seven months of his life. I admire her courageousness. She rang me a little while after Shelley’s death and has been one of my strongest bonds and inspirations since.
Together our grief is outrageous, if it was colours, it would be black and blue and deep purple. But it is magnificent to be able to be so bold and loud and unreasonable about the death of our children. She says that I help her and she sure as hell helps me, tremendously. We talk about the different deaths, one with time to talk and nurture, one without. One is no better than the other. I can’t imagine how she managed all those months, knowing what the outcome would be; she can’t imagine the brutality, shock and horror of the murderous death. We laugh too, which may surprise you, but we do. At outrageous things. The poor check out chick who says, “Have a nice day,” and you want to, or do explode, saying how the hell can I have a nice day my child is dead. It is so raw and wild and we understand each other.
It is wonderful to be able to talk to each other, no holds barred and say what we think and feel. We mutter about people muttering on about time is great healer. Bullshit, we say, it doesn’t change a thing. Perhaps the healing does increase and you can be again able, to take some joy from life, from your other children and your family. But the wound is as fresh today as if was the 7th July for me, and her son's death date for her. It will be so every day we draw breath.
This is for Ben and Shelley and their ever loving Mums and families.
I am four years older than my dad when he died, thirty years older than dear Shelley. I would swap, in the blink of an eye, my time to give to her. I cannot do that and as I reflect on my life so far, I have much to be grateful for. Apart, is such a small word with a huge meaning for me. Apart for Shelley’s death, I am satisfied and grateful for my life as it is. I wish apart was not part of it at all.
(I think I will get myself another tattoo for my birthday. I have three already, one after my mother died, and two magnificent ones for Shelley. My next one will be something small that means strength to me, and honours my survival so far.)
I don’t wish I was any younger. I am at a place I enjoy, as much as I can, the people and things in my life. It is a good place to be, as good as it can be. The ever-gaping hole in my heart is no longer an enemy. It just is. There is something every day, which causes me to think of my darling daughter. It may be a young girl passing through the screening point at the airport, off on her OE or a mother with a young baby. One young woman had been crying and was still visibly upset when she came through to me. She said she was sad leaving her family but was excited and just had to do it. I encouraged her, all the time fighting off the desire to tell her not to go, to go back to her family. Instead I wished her well and hoped, more than anything that she would head off, enjoy her time and return safely to her family. That is what I want for everyone.
I have finished the house, deck and fence painting. Yay!! It looks bloody good, even if I do say so myself. I am now about to start doing a few things in the garden. A bit of spring cleaning and replanting. Then, this low maintenance home, (huh I sure was sucked in by that phrase!), should indeed be low maintenance. I will then have time to get stuck into my writing. I need time and peace to do that and it is almost here.
The writing process is a way of getting lost in my thoughts and feelings and of having some control over things. I control the words and the meaning for me, and hope that it all may mean something to others. In the end, it doesn’t matter if it doesn’t but I am encouraged by people that tell me they get something out of my humble efforts. That pleases me.
I have another dear friend, K, whose beloved son died a few months before Shelley. His death was long and slow, the result of an incredibly rare disease that wastes away your bones, (only 200 people in the world have had this). He was 18years old. Her family nursed him at home for the last seven months of his life. I admire her courageousness. She rang me a little while after Shelley’s death and has been one of my strongest bonds and inspirations since.
Together our grief is outrageous, if it was colours, it would be black and blue and deep purple. But it is magnificent to be able to be so bold and loud and unreasonable about the death of our children. She says that I help her and she sure as hell helps me, tremendously. We talk about the different deaths, one with time to talk and nurture, one without. One is no better than the other. I can’t imagine how she managed all those months, knowing what the outcome would be; she can’t imagine the brutality, shock and horror of the murderous death. We laugh too, which may surprise you, but we do. At outrageous things. The poor check out chick who says, “Have a nice day,” and you want to, or do explode, saying how the hell can I have a nice day my child is dead. It is so raw and wild and we understand each other.
It is wonderful to be able to talk to each other, no holds barred and say what we think and feel. We mutter about people muttering on about time is great healer. Bullshit, we say, it doesn’t change a thing. Perhaps the healing does increase and you can be again able, to take some joy from life, from your other children and your family. But the wound is as fresh today as if was the 7th July for me, and her son's death date for her. It will be so every day we draw breath.
This is for Ben and Shelley and their ever loving Mums and families.
We love you and hold you in our hearts every day.
Every Day
every day
I carry this
the loss of you
some days
it is not obvious
but today
it hits me again
I hold the weight of your ashes
more than you weighed at birth
I think
I clutch them to me
I want to place you back inside me
to give you life again
I carry you
every day
every day
(from my book “Dear Shelley”, published June 2006)
Arohanui,
KG
Every Day
every day
I carry this
the loss of you
some days
it is not obvious
but today
it hits me again
I hold the weight of your ashes
more than you weighed at birth
I think
I clutch them to me
I want to place you back inside me
to give you life again
I carry you
every day
every day
(from my book “Dear Shelley”, published June 2006)
Arohanui,
KG
XX
2 comments:
Kia ora KG,
I don't know quite what to write, there is so much to ponder here. I lost a brother years ago now, but it changed my mom in so many ways and she i9s beautiful woman. It is her birthday this week as well and I am going to send her a link to your writings. Kia ora, and happy birthday!
Ka kite ano,
Robb
Thank you for your lovely words. It is pleasing to know that my own words maybe of some help to you and your Mum. A birthday hug for her from me, and love to you both and all your family.
KG
XX
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