how to celebrate your dead sister’s birthday
Text ‘happy birthday’ to her old number. You never know, you may get a, thanks, it’s not my birthday but thanks in advance, or you could get, who are you, or you may get a message failed message...
View ArticleI’m going to let her shine…
On Friday it was four years since the day I lost my little sister. I’ll admit I have trouble with a sentence like that one. Since my little sister’s passing? Passing into what, where? Since my little...
View Articlenot too late to be daddy’s girl
My dad is back in hospital. Today, could be right now, he’s having an operation to remove a melanoma from his brain. I’m meant to be being productive – working on the novel, working on my fitness,...
View Articlethe little girl at the centre
The kid in the highchair at the table next to mine is almost two, so her grandma says. The kid’s jacket is blue so somewhere in the split second of meeting her I unconsciously decide she’s a boy. Turns...
View Articlethe big fix
On my resume it says I’m a fast learner. Quick study, that’s me. Show me a couple of times, leave me to it, and I’ll pick it up. And so I ask myself, why then, did it take me so long to learn about Dad...
View Articleroller-skating at the rock
This being in the now, this concept, sure is adorable; it’s shiny and charming and nothing at all. I love it. But I can’t sustain it. At work the other day among the loaves and cofee is my record. And...
View Articlethe good news is the dead live on within us
He says hello exactly like she did. The same breathy way, the same intonation. It’s uncanny. It used to disturb me, made the missing tear at my gut, I didn’t want Darren to say hello, I wanted...
View Articlewhat’s grief again?
August is Grief Awareness month. Of course I find that hilarious. I’d be looking for Greif Unawareness Month. A good thirty or so sunrises and sundowns of not knowing about death, and tears, and...
View Articlethe beautiful mess of her
On Friday a piece from daysofhilda was published in the big paper, on-line, not the hard copy. The piece was read by someone who invited me onto her radio programme to talk grief for a couple of...
View Articlewings
The little boys cries in bed. His wings are coming in. It’s like the teething he did when he was years younger, but it hurts more. He doesn’t remember teething, his mother does. His cheeks, fire-engine...
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