Sometimes I’m gripped by the flash of a memory, pulled back in time by an object, or a colour, to mornings I spent with you in the half-light, trying to commit the details… Continue reading
We came to your grave on Christmas Day, complained about the rain and placed a wreath by the heather that was growing at your feet, a tribute to you, a memorial.
I can’t bear the thought of sleep; every night I surrender is another morning I wake with that fog overhead, weighing me down, seeping the strength from my bones.
I used to wonder if I should have brought you flowers, like I was afraid that my words would never be enough.
There’s a fog forming over the horizon, creeping down from the mountaintops and spilling over trees; a static of the senses, a dampening disease.