Word vomit

The grief squad.

The four of us cling onto each other, forming the grief squad. Our days fall into a familiar routine: cleaning, sorting, crying, convincing each other to eat, forced evening walks and sporadic (somewhat guilty) laughter, usually when we discover a hidden memory we can share with the rest that we had long forgotten about. We… Continue reading The grief squad.

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Word vomit

Grief (cont’d).

There is nothing more unsettling than watching my mother fall apart, realizing my own ineptness at comforting her. Every night, I hold her sobbing body in my dead aunt's bed, while we take turns telling stories, desperately hanging onto the memories I already feel slipping away. I only pull up my aunt's voice in my… Continue reading Grief (cont’d).

Word vomit

Jubilee garden.

If I stretch my arms out far enough I can graze the edges of my grief with my fingertips, pushing it away to make room for my mother's grief, which she is unable to hold back as it crashes against her relentlessly. Nothing will ever be the same again. I stumble through the hospital corridors… Continue reading Jubilee garden.

Word vomit

The train of doom.

All the bad days of my life combined don't come close to this living hell. I stare begrudgingly at the carefree couple sitting across from me on the train, clearly on their way to somewhere filled with laughter and friends and ice-cream that trickles down their hands as the sun shines down on them on… Continue reading The train of doom.

Word vomit

Life interrupted.

I wince thinking back to last week, sitting in my solarium, clinking wine glasses with Mr. J, thinking to myself that life has never been this happy or good or fucking easy. Infinite possibilities stretched out before me; a safety net of love and support lay beneath me. I see my aunt's message come through… Continue reading Life interrupted.