Tiny Stories

I wake, fragments of my dream swirling in my head. I want to capture it before it escapes, and there it is: crockery, chocolates, my family and an odd feeling of frustration and discomfort. Later I realise the images have spiralled into my mind as the anniversary nears. No, not the 10 year anniversary of the Christchurch quakes, though they fall on the same day. Mine is less public, a private commemoration after a year of great loss. Grief is not what I thought it was, and I wonder why it’s taken me so long to understand this. Anniversaries are tough, the first the toughest. Each year, a little less, with perspective, with gratitude. We fight to remember, and yet we begin to forget. At times, grief hits us with a force greater than gravity, the sternum painfully radiating the hurt. Other days, we are calm and still, a peace descending. But anniversaries - yes, anniversaries are tough. She makes suggestions, my friend, an experienced celebrant, a woman of compassion and practicality. P

  Warning: death and dying are covered in this blog. Please look after yourself and those around you. If you need help, free text or call 1737 anytime within Aotearoa/New Zealand.    It’s a balmy summer afternoon, and I’m heading to my friends for dinner, where Korean Chicken will salve my growing hunger. Fur Elise starts to play gently on my phone, the tune a memory of the days I had an old piano. My son is calling, distraught, an accident with the cat, an injury, the vet at Carrington. Cursing at insolent drivers and praying for green lights, I arrive, forgetting to scan in, rapidly hugging an unexpected friend in the waiting room who has her own tragedy to deal with tomorrow. I stroke Thunder, the diminutive Co-share Cat, who is lying peacefully in a box. My son, his friends, me - we weep. Deep belly weeps, blue eyes stained with tears, sobbing from the soul. Later, I watch them. Sam’s hands are bandaged, the wounds Thundy inflicted in fear and agony now treated with a tetanus jab a