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| Jaz aged 8 in 2003 |
What a stupid expression. I use it myself, regularly, but really, there's nothing good about grief. Not that I've noticed anyway.
I wrote a book after Jaz died. More for my own therapy than anything else but I am wondering if I should do something with it. Like Angela's Ashes, it may need to wait until a few people have moved on - me included! - before it should see the light of day. (Frank McCourt called his best selling memoir that because he'd had to wait until his mother, Angela, passed away before it was published or 'the shame would have killed her'.)
Mine's call "14 Years, 23 Days", the extent of Jaz's life. Here's a snippet.
Grief weighs heavy on my chest, day and
night, like someone’s lost luggage. I know this baggage is mine, but it’s so
unfamiliar, so unrecognisable. I keep hoping I’ll wake from this nightmare and
someone else will claim it.
Eleanor told me today that she is exactly 14 years and 23 days today. It made me cry. Losing George has somehow picked open that barely scabbed over but still weeping wound. Good grief? I don't think so.
