Whispers and Wanderings

This story was originally written in December 2018 at a time when the feelings behind it were new and raw. "She Stayed Until She Vanished" came from a place I wasn’t ready to share then. It was too visceral, too tangled up with my own life to share. So I left it unfinished, telling myself that one day I’d come back and finish it. This is that day! A lot of water has flowed under the bridge since this piece was first written, and the woman I was then feels like a memory, familiar but also far away. With that distance, I now see Emma’s Story for what it is: part fiction, part experience, written in a way that helped me make sense of the things I didn’t quite have the words for at the time. Some of what she feels, I felt. Some of what she lived, I lived. And some of it is the story I needed to tell to understand myself better. Now, with a clearer perspective and some small amendments, this is Emma’s story. However it also carries pieces of me, and perhaps, pieces of others who h...

This is an adaptation of a poem that I wrote over 30 years ago. I have made a few tweaks to it and added a final verse. The foodie frame was created by Microsoft Copilot but the poem itself is all my own work. Hope it makes you smile. 😀

I CAN FIND NO TEARS I can find no tears now that you have gone, Even though I know you have passed on. I cannot hear your voice or your demands, I cannot see your face or hold your hands. I can find no tears since saying goodbye, There are just not any there for me to cry. I cannot wish you back - your pain would stay, And I could not ask you live your life that way. I want to find the tears to communicate, This numb and empty feeling which I hate. I send a message to your silent phone, But never see the thumbs up, which says I'm not alone. Dad, you are gone and somewhere wait the tears. The memories of you, all my hopes and fears. So I listen to the music you enjoyed, Hoping that each beat will stitch this void. One day the tears may find their way to me, In the garden, breeze or rustle of a tree. Until that day, I’ll carry what I can - The love, the loss, the shadow of the man. Although my eyes stay dry, my heart still knows, The weight of every memory that it holds. A father...

image created by MS Copilot In our hotel room, the curtains hang, like two orange sentries guarding us from the world that lies beyond the glass. The air in the room is still and they stand steady and resolute. As Claire sits on the bed reading her book, I am still. Gazing at the stark white ceiling, my thoughts are a mix of the week that has passed and of the day we have spent here in the ancient city of Valletta. I hold my coffee cup as it warms my hand, though my thoughts are such that I’ve forgotten to drink the brown liquid it contains. I take a sip and the bitterness as I swallow, brings me back to the present. Music hums from my phone. It is not so loud as to distract Claire from her book, but just enough to seep through into my thoughts as Lady Gaga invites me to consider if I'm "happy in this modern world? ....or is there something else I'm searchin' for?" Beyond the door, the small enclosed balcony feels like a threshold; a no man's land, an inbetwee...

Claire and I were sitting in the kitchen when we heard the mirror fall that morning. It never reached the floor but slid from the wall and lodged itself behind the sofa, tilted and breathing, as if the house had changed its mind halfway through. The surface of the mirror didn’t shatter – it remained whole, held there at an awkward angle, reflecting only the narrow strip of the white wall it faced. The black glass beads that had once adorned it were fragmented and lay scattered like tiny jewels on the sofa cushion – never again to be whole. I didn’t know it then but, just like that mirror, my life was about to change forever. My Dad, already ill by then, was being cared for at home by my sisters. I had been there the night before, finishing my weekend shift beside him. It had been challenging; Dad wasn’t eating or drinking. He was distressed, and we had struggled to secure the medical support he needed in the days after his impromptu and somewhat surprising discharge from hospital. Afte...

It’s quiet in your makeshift bedroom tonight, Dad. The light pushes through the glass panes of the living room doors and casts a faint silver glow on your sleeping face. You snore gently, then you stop. It seems an age till your next breath breaks the silence, and I listen in anticipation. Your chest heaves, your lip twitches, and another sound is emitted, this time a moan, some panting, another snore and the silence reigns anew. Your hand slips down the duvet, your fingers grasping at the cover, searching blindly for something. It finds my blue painted nails, covers the back of my hand and you squeeze my fingers gently. I clasp your hand and squeeze back and, for a moment, I am a child again. I am your little girl and you are my Dad - we are flawed, but we are beautiful. I cannot heal you, I cannot protect you, I cannot save you but, for the time we have left, I can love you. I can hold your hand, and you can hold mine.