My beloved husband, Kent, died in January 2012, 3 years after diagnosis of a brain tumour. Our son was 2 1/2 and our daughter 3 months old. He and I were far too young. I am now hurtling through the black space of life without him.

Saturday, 24 August 2013


Were we talking about
your forever
or mine?
And what's all this
"until the end
of time"?
Because your clock
has stopped
and mine's
still ticking.
And what on earth
am I going to do
with all of this
infinite love
I still have
for you?

Monday, 19 August 2013

Approaching Midnight

Some things are too painful to put in to this space, and some have never made it out of my journal. This one should perhaps stay there. But maybe, said aloud, the words will diminish the power?

It's in these last moments of the night
the pain comes like a silent killer.
I'm somewhere between asleep and awake,
silent, still, on the edge of oblivion
when the knife that sits always within me
slowly starts twisting
silver and glinting.
It shreds my insides.
I sit atop the knife point of grief
silent, still, waiting for oblivion
tears dropping from the corners of my eyes.

Saturday, 17 August 2013

Wiping tears

"On no Mummy." The wee poppet came rushing in to the kitchen. "Oh no Mummy." It's not an uncommon phrase in our house at the moment. "Well that sounds important," I said. I gave her my hand and she led me through the hallway to the lounge. Right up to this picture, and pointed at the young woman.

Oh. Gosh.
"Yes," I said. "She's having a wee cry."

"Nee. Nee. Mummy room." And she bustled off on her own this time. Nee means nose, and she returned from my room with a tissue. And started wiping the tears of the young grieving woman.

I watched, speechless for a while.
"Um, can Mummy use the tissue too please?"
And she handed it to me.