Tomorrow we're catching a plane to France for our first foreign holiday in five years. I've never taken the children on a plane on my own and I'm worried that my grief-addled brain won't get us there. I'm sad too, to be flying off to the sunshine when you are no longer living, scared almost to leave you behind, scared to leave my laptop too. But then I realise that you are no longer tethered here and of course I will take you with us. And I think about the flight and how close you will feel when I look out of the window and see those clouds around us and below us. Thinking about the flight reminds me of the poem that I wrote the day before you died, the poem that you loved and I remember that, really, it was a poem about the rollercoaster of grief, written following the death of my mum. I haven't shared it here yet, so I post it as my goodbye to Sheffield and my last blog post for a week, as we go off to catch the sun. Today I feel we are heading towards the light but I know that the clouds will come and go. A few days ago I couldn't move for grief, couldn't stop crying. Today has been the first day I haven't cried at all. I'm learning to go with the flow of this grief, enjoying the moments of respite, before the clouds roll in again, engulfing me in blackness, spilling tears like raindrops.
Clouds
I collect raindrops like tears
store them up for years,
in a muffling grey blanket,
protection from the searing
rays of the sun.
And it has begun.
We break through, nose first,
hold tight as stomachs lurch
and then the bright blue glide.
Glad to be alive,
all below is candyfloss and cottonwool
and we long to be released,
to bounce on tiptoe,
light as fairies or feathers
in a pillowfight,
a delight of primary colours.
But we land in gloom
and the earth is a dirty smudge
beneath a grey-white ceiling.
There is no meaning,
no shapes, nor symbols, nor metaphors.
So bleak we cannot even see the clouds
for the sky.
Time passes by.
Rain falls and the ceiling
breaks apart,
shafts of sunlight warm the skin,
illuminating everything.
Wind blows, clouds scud
like surf across the blue.
If only we knew
that it was there all along.
Clouds forming, moving, breaking
gone.
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