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Grief

Perhaps it was a sign

Posted on March 4, 2019 by Larissa

We teach our kids not to wipe their runny noses on their sleeves. But if you’re at the cemetery visiting your mum’s grave to see the headstone for the first time and you don’t have a tissue, then it’s permitted. Would it be ‘her’ headstone instead of ‘the’ headstone? I would rather we were debating … Continue reading Perhaps it was a sign

Posted in Grief, On lifeTagged on life2 Comments

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Hermoine smashing this look. #thebearandthewhale #blacklipstickonpoint
I’d like to be able to leave the door open for you two to come and go as you please, but since I had @sophietehan over for coffee and we had to put our gins down and lock the children in a bedroom while we killed a snake in the lounge room, I’m thinking that’s not going to work. #thebearandthewhale #farmlife #neededasecondgin #snakesintheloungeroomarenotcool
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We teach our kids not to wipe their runny noses on their sleeves. But if you’re at the cemetery visiting your mum’s grave to see the headstone for the first time and you don’t have a tissue, then it’s permitted. Would it be ‘her’ headstone instead of ‘the’ headstone? I would rather we were debating whether it’s her handbag or the handbag because, oh look, she’s just driven off and there it is on the armchair. But it’s not her handbag we’re talking about. It’s her headstone. It looks nice. We must have chosen gold writing. The one beside hers has white. A lot of them have white. Should we have ticked white? When did we tick that box anyway? There’s her name and Dad’s name and all of our names. Now I’m on my knees on the patchy lawn that’s trying to grow above her. And I can’t believe she’s in the ground. I wipe my nose on my sleeve again. It’s blood. Rushing out my nose. There’s a pool of it on the loose sand and a coat of it on the blades of a runner of grass. I stand up and step back quickly, as if I’ve just taken a lipstick from her makeup drawer and wound it out so far that the whole red stick has broken off. I reach down and gently sweep some of the sand so that it covers the blemish. And I pick up a long straw of dead grass that’s blown and landed there like no-one cares. I throw it as hard as I can and it lands not far from where it was. I know that Mum rarely visited the cemetery. Nana and Papa are in heaven—it’s only their bodies in the ground—she told me. I think she told me the same when she was unwell. That she’ll be in heaven. That we didn’t need to visit her at the cemetery. I think she did tell me that. Warm blood streams down my lips and splashes onto the concrete path. I back further away, onto the dirt where there are not yet any graves, and let the drips fall there instead. The clouds overhead are darkening. An army of ants crowds around the blood on the concrete and a swarm of flies fights over two bright clots on my sleeve. Even Mum’s rings on my fingers are red. I tear off my top and hold it against my face. I can feel the blood streaming warm into the fabric. (Blog post continues in Comments)...

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