A note for you

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A note for you

A note for you

Your absence  brought me silence. Silence brought me  presence.   This is the simplest way  I can think of  to say  Thank You.

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The little one

The little one

The little one has mucus gathered at her nose this evening and she lays in my arms unpurring and still, onyx eyes open.   Her tiny animal heart  beats at a speed she surely cannot take for too long.   My fingers touch it, fluttering wildly in the cage of her ribs, beneath her front limbs  when I lift her up to feel the sun.  The skin of her ears is paper thin, red and veined, translucent and warm.   He, an old man in a crumpled suit, bones only recently filtered into the earth, bends to sing from his gut,  while

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Only a few moments ago

​Only a few moments ago,  I slumped on the floor by your bed like a child and pressed my thumb into the fleshy nook of your elbow and felt the last waxy warmth between your ribs and your arm,  as though you were still able to hold me.   And I thought then about wandering upon the wet cobblestones in Galway after dark,  live music from gallery bars competing with the rushing of the sea and the stars  falling one by one like shivering birds shot out of the sky.   Sleep well now, my love, and thank you for

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15th December

Just a quick post to let you know that my beloved grandma passed away at 10:15am today.  After the rollercoaster of the past few days, the end was very peaceful and we were all by her side.   There is, of course, tremendous emptiness and sadness, but I am so grateful that both of my grandparents died, peaceful and warm, at home, surrounded by their family.  They deserved that.   Thank you so much for all of your kind words and thoughts over the past week or so.  They have helped a lot.

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On parting

On parting

This comes with gratitude since, for a brief while, you saw something within me that resonated within you. And isn’t that life, entirely?

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The progression

The progression

Things are progressing, I know. Despite my trying to breathe in every detail of the moment in some childlike hope of preserving it–the shop-bought fragrance that releases in occasional puffs from beneath the hostess trolley by the door, the warm rumblings of the cat’s belly against my thigh, the silenced tennis match on the TV, the way the pale light falls in uneven stripes through the old, broken blinds—things are progressing (regressing?) and there is nothing we can do about it. We are simultaneously slipping through the wide sinkhole of the future, and falling back through the broken pieces of

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The garage

The garage

I wrote this after my beloved grandfather passed away last year.  He had a high-grade glioma (brain tumour) and died peacefully at home after being nursed by my mum for several weeks.  After writing about him a little yesterday, I wanted to share.  I cleaned out my grandparents’ garage today, to make room for my mother’s things– two double beds, bluish-black sofas, antique dresser units, all of the cumbersome kitchen essentials. I tried to be ruthless, without throwing away anything of importance. But is an old red petrol can not important, given the circumstances? Seven months ago he left, never

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Remembrance Sunday

Remembrance Sunday

For the young men who never returned. For the young men who did, but grew old quickly. For those who witnessed things they never should have witnessed. We remember, with sorrow and gratitude. May the sunlight forever warm your faces, and remind us never again to tread in the dark places of greed, anger, envy and violence. ‘They’ are us. And they dream of peace. Note:  I took this picture in the church in the ghost village of Tyneham in late September.

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