But this is my world. Those were the cards I had been dealt. I have been living without my Mum for 14 months now. I have been doing okay.
I’m a hoarder of moments, desperate to find gold in paper,
Something that I had missed before, like an echoing smile.
I walk in my loving, sweet Danse Macabre,
My fruitless attempt to make “treasure” worthwhile.
Your grief is seen and felt, even at the time of the Christmas spirit and when all is merry. You are seen. You are heard. Your loved one, nor you, is forgotten.
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.
I got to thinking about that and realised the poem with the experience is about enigma.
Every time someone asks you what you need, you’re reluctant to share.
Because when you do, they question that decision.
Our true love ran deep
Cascading over hidden rocks
In case you missed anything from October…
How does life continue
When your loved ones
Time is done?