Bereaved mother, writing it all down
It has been one year and two months since Fred died, and it is my second #NationalBereavedParentsDay. That seems an extraordinary thing to write, but there it is. In that time, I have relied on the strength and grace of those that were bereaved before me, and have seen others follow. I have also seen … Read more
How we talk about children’s cancer matters. It’s easy to worry about saying the right thing, the wrong thing, and often people end up saying nothing at all, which is the worst of all. The language used usually involves wars, battles, fighting, bravery. In many ways it’s odd. We never say a child lost their battle against an articulated lorry, but cancer it seems is up for the fight.
Baby shoes. Worn. Incredibly worn. Scuffed from trips and falls, stained from damp grass, and sand, and mud. Darker than they once were. Burnished. They are red leather, oxblood smart with two tiny velcro straps. Laces could wait. We bought them from the tiny shop down that little road – the posh shop with the … Read more
Like a marble slab, with grief comes weight. It’s a suffocating, crushing pressure that pushes you down from above, and pulls you from beneath. Staying alive takes focus and intense concentration. This breath, this step. Like a child we learn to live again. This is how we breathe, in, out, in, out. This is how … Read more
When I was a child, I loved Mother’s Day. More specifically, I loved Blue Peter and never more so than when the presenters uttered the magical words “Mums leave the room” before they unveiled this year’s craft creation. I’m actually rubbish at crafts, so my Mum would feign delight at the latest wrapping paper, matchbox … Read more
One of Fred’s favourite songs that I sang to him when he was small was The Little Tin Soldier. Originally by Donavan, it was a song my brother had sung to me when I was similarly small, so I know all the words. The story, based on the Hans Christian Andersen story,, is about a … Read more
I always loved World Book Day, although I pretended I hated it. I bristled at the expectation and I think at one point argued that it was a construct of the patriarchy. However, I was dedicated. My rules were strict, no film characters allowed. If it was a film then the book had to have come first.
There is a character in LA Confidential called Rolo Tomasi. One of my favourite books, a nice counterbalance to Daphne Du Maurier, it’s a brutal crime story of police and political corruption, and a triumph of the broken and flawed over the venal. It’s very much a tale for our age. Rolo Tomasi doesn’t exist. … Read more
I couldn’t find a feather, there’s never one when you need one. You can’t plan these things, or know where to look. They are not like conkers or pine cones. Feathers find you, carried on the breeze in search of a new home. People tell me that they are messages from the other side, sent … Read more
You are the one I have trusted my boy to, the only one now who can take care of him, the one who has always taken care of him. From the moment he tried to eat out of the plant pot, in our tiny earthless city garden, he was always in search of you. We … Read more
MY POOR FEET This was written as part of the Winter Writing Sanctuary . The course consists of a ‘Daily Spark’ in which Beth reads some poetry aloud, and then a writing prompt. This day’s prompt was to stand in the garden in bare feet. The Daily Spark – new plan. I’m listening to the … Read more
As a mother, I maintained a high level of alert for my children, ever watchful for signs of impending disaster. With Fred there was an extra level of peril because, like a velociraptor, he was always testing the fences looking for weak points. Like that time he got up early and made a den by … Read more