I love reading memoirs, peoples real stories.I love imagining my own. Because my own life has been so wonderful and so beautiful, and I’d like that to be the theme of my funeral. I hope the people that love me most aren’t around to see it, because I hope they’ve passed peacefully before me. But if they are, I hope they’re not sad. Because dust to dust. It’s all part of it. We made Bernadette, our greatest achievement now let’s go on. I hope they talk about places and people and music I loved. I hope there’s a party at the red dog and I hope the Weber brothers play. I hope feeling good again by Robert earl keen is played, and maybe it will be in the daytime, not the night time. Maybe there will be the roast beef dinner with the buttered buns. The night they drove old Dixie down And maybe someone can mention that my favourite place on this planet is Daniels harbour, and I only spent a couple of days There on that trip 8 years ago but I just knew it was the most beautiful place I’d been. And …
A lot of this parenting thing involves running to catch up. Physically yes, but also trying to catch up with development, ensuring we’re knowledgeable about what’s going on at any given time. When b woke up at 3 months old with red patches of eczema, I googled the symptoms and started on what would be a very long journey to discover the cause and solution - which was not at all as easy as I thought it would be. If only I knew then what I know now. I could have ended it fairly quickly- and prevented a very scary prospect which still looms over us everyday; 50-70 percent of eczema cases in babies escalate to become Asthma. (https://www.nhs.uk/news/medical-practice/how-eczema-might-lead-to-asthma/) After changing all our soaps, detergents, and crib sheets; after putting a humidifier in her room, and giving her nightly baths with a variety of different potions with no change, we knew it wasn’t external but something happening internally. We started to examine my diet. She was exclusively …
You turned into a little boy when you crawled into bed. Out of bed you became a man again Mascara stained pillow cases I made coffee to seduce you - make you feel a little good about the day - the day you are to die We couldn’t take our eyes off you for a second, because we knew - a lifetime without looking at you would be never as good. Powerful in your highs and lows
My best friends purse She makes a puddle of her things A puddle of herself Came home tonight The contents of your purse were on the kitchen floor Lipstick, no lid, loose smokes What were you looking for Wondering when you’ll find All the people you’ve become All the places you run from Keys were in the door Stockings halfway up the stairs I hear him coming round But I’m not sure he really cares
I caught myself going back there again last night. I visit the time and place in my head where he used to be alive. The people are there, his people, and I revisit. Inevitably it always ends with”he’s not back yet” “no” okay, I’ll come backa’ later.
I know he won’t be back but it feels like maybe next time.
Although our brains are the most sophisticated machines on earth, they’re rendered almost childlike when confronted with grief. They speak only in the simplest terms.
Where is he?
When’s he coming back
That’s ok I’ll wait
How can he be so real in my memory but not real at all in my day to day?
So I live with this illogical idea that I know is illogical but I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to explain it to my brain for it to fully understand