I would like a conversation, where we talk about life and living and what it all means. Maybe after, my brain will turn into liquid and drip into dreams.
‘Gently, My Mother’ is a small poem I wrote on a sunny Friday which made me miss my own quite terribly.
Writing on the blog is deeply personal. I imagine I sit you down, offer you tea, hold your hand and look you in the eyes. Whilst you may read this and throw it away, or never think of it again, I think of it every day. The power of you sitting with me, and giving me space to share my thoughts.
What alarmed me most was the vacantness in her eyes as if being present was too much to bear.
I thought I knew grief but this was different.