Forever Invictus

Unlike my friend and fellow survivor Iola, who’s already bought and decorated a beautiful Christmas tree, Christmas just isn’t coming to me.

Sometimes I see Andrew’s face in my mind’s eyes. I hear his voice in my mind’s ears.

I play with his long, strong, lustrous hair. He lets me make lots of little plaits, & his hair is so thick that it stays like that.

And in the car, if one of his siblings beat him to the front seat, he puts his head on my lap in the back:

“Mummy, can I be tired on you?” he asks me.

“Yes my love,” I used to say. “You be tired on me.”

He would close his eyes and I would stroke his face with my fingers, play with his hair…

Into this treasure chest of images, a ghastly one has sneaked in from somewhere; Andrew lying dead on a hospital bed behind the drawn curtains of a little, non descript cubicle.

His hair off his face hanging behind him… off the bed…. his skin cold… a tube coming out of mouth, a white brace collar around his neck…

“No, it’s better you don’t take his hand from under the sheet…” the doctors says stopping my hand midway.

And soon it will be Christmas, for a lot of people…

Come and be tired on me Andrew.

Of all the Christmas presents that I would like, that is the one I would cherish the most.

I tried to hold on to it, but the picture slipped out of my hands, fell on the floor, and the glass broke.

It had never happened to me before, to drop a picture and break the glass, I mean.

And this was a picture of Andrew!

“What does it mean?” I immediately asked myself.

And now I ask you: Do you think it means anything?

Love

Esmeralda

Some kind of brigade

Last night Robert invited me to a “Cereal Brigade”

I smiled

“Andrew invited me to a “cereal brigade in writing once,” he said as he took his favorite cereal out of the cupboard.
“Really? So Andrew,” I said, stopping what I was doing. “What did he write, how did he give it to you?”
“You are hereby invited to join me in a “Cereal Brigade”.”
“But how did he give it to you?”
“He came downstairs and gave it to me”
“What, and then he just stood there watching while you read it?” I asked, knowing that that was exactly how it must have happened, for, you see, I knew my son.
“Yes, he waited while I read it, then he laughed.”

I miss you Andrew! Robert, Florentina, Daddy and Zoe miss you. And lots of other people miss you.

Dear Kukunaokala,

On this day, one of the anniversaries that have followed the first of your beloved son Michael’s death, I want you to know that I am thinking of you.

I think of the first time you “popped” up into my consciousness, commenting on one of my posts.

I think of the days, weeks, months and now almost years, that followed that first contact.
You have always been there.

A reader, a friend, a teacher, a fellow survivor … all those things; but most of all a watchful mother. Because motherhood, parenthood, do not stop with ones children.
And you dear, precious friend, embody motherhood.

I mourn with you the loss of your son Michael, beyond the reach of your arms, yes, but forever alive and thriving in your heart.

With our earthly mind we suffer and mourn, yet we know that they are alive and well.

Only gone from sight, for a while.

With all my love dear Kukunaokala.

Your friend,

Esmeralda

Andrew’s funeral was two years ago today.

I am not feeling well. I have not been feeling well for days and days and days.

I feel as though this has only just happened, but with the accumulated grief of the last two years.

I feel depressed. I struggle to start the day. But I do my best. What choice do I have anyway?
I can choose to go down, or I can choose to stand as tall as I can and to hold on as hard as I can.
I hold on, I have to. Have to, have to, have to.
I don’t talk of my family’s struggles … but to see others suffer … Oh Lord

Please take care everyone

Love

Esmeralda

“Breathe,” I tell myself. “Breathe! You’ve been here before. Even if it looks pitch black, it isn’t. The light is there somewhere. Go on, look for it. Breathe, don’t be afraid.”

I keep encouraging myself. To give in and just sleep …

But, fuck, no!

And I am not afraid to shout for help.
If I don’t face and conquer this it’ll only come back, again and again.

You are strong Esmeralda, you can do it, you have done it. It will pass.
But why do others have to suffer too?
Oh my children.
To know that each of us can only travel our own road, walk on our own two feet.

The wind is strong, I am struggling. But I am hanging in there.

Breathe Esmeralda… breathe

Thank you, thank you, thank you!

I am going to drive to the city around 4 a.m. tomorrow morning. In a few hours.

Will I be able to intercept him this time?

I have deleted today’s post.
Thank you to those who responded willing to help.
The situation I wrote about is been taken care of.
Love
Esmeralda
Andrew’s Mummy

Today I found myself writing this, and then I forced myself to get dressed and go to the Park. I didn’t want to. I wanted to curl up and sleep. But I went, I walked a mile, twice around the park, one foot after the other, again and again.
I was tired, so tired.
I sat in the sun for a while, I listened to the birds singing. I asked Andrew how it was for him. I asked for his help and then I told him that in fact I don’t want him to worry about me, I would rather he looked after himself. I told him that my grief is about what he must suffered without ever complaining. That is what hurts. To think of him doing it all by himself. Oh dear Lord…

Silence Please

Be still for the child has heard too much, and might run away never to look back.

Be silent, so many voices, so many words.

Standing on other’s fears while they drown so that we can travel another hundred yards.

Silence is the love the child needs now.

So young and trusting and ready to take you at your words that she can have the world, that darkness only needs a light to be shined upon it, to show it for what it is.

And when the child starts to believe and smile wide-eyed at her dreams, why does the light recede and the darkness return? Who snuffed it?

No more talking, no more noise.

Be still and let the child rest, she may not be dead yet.