Posted @ 11:25:21 on 28 August 2006
Twenty months ago, death let off a nuclear bomb in my soul. My Mum was taken from me by cancer of the pancreas, the same cancer that also took my grandmother in the same decade of her life. My gandma's name was Violet. I have lived with death for some time now. I dont mean that death lurks in the shadows and jumps out in the middle of the night when I am not expecting it, I mean that he follows me around every minute of every day, and breathes his hot breath down my neck. Every tarot reading he is there, scythe in hand, waving at me from the spread. I see his features imprinted on the faces of people I walk past. He pisses me off, big time. Not just because I cant quite get rid of him, but because he stands between me and my Mum. I cant quite make her out though the thick cloud he leaves behind him. I want to picture her face, but some days all I see is his. I tried to paint my grief, and all I had was a deep dark midnight blue canvas. i tried to write my grief and all I spat was anger onto the page. So now I brew like a demon and hope that one day I will have brewed enough soap to wash all this away.
I want to write about my mum, but somehow I can't quite manage it yet. I want to remember her as she was when she was well, the fun we shared together, the things she taught me, the compassion she had for people, the talks we had, but somehow I can't quite do her justice. All I can do is occassionally pluck up the courage to see the pictures of how she was, and hope that somewhere she is still dancing on the beach on Violet's island...
Posted @ 11:25:21 on 28 August 2006