Friday, March 12, 2004
It's one year since the machine that was supporting Casey's breathing was turned off. He had gone some hours before, when his blood turned traitor and crushed the brain that gave reason to their function.
It's difficult to acknowledge that brutal truth in words, though those thoughts have been swirling in my mind. For ever it seems.
Today I am in London. The wind has been bitterly cold - cutting through the layers of my clothing, trying to tear my scarf away to get at my throat - but tonight the cold also brought snow, soft and light and magical, there for an instant then melting into tears.
It seems to be a metaphor for the way that Casey's death has affected me. It brought me the darkest days of my life, and will always be there, a grieving thorn niggling at the deepest part of me, screaming "what if?....".
It also reawakened the ephereal gift of writing and painting, which I'm not sure how I came to possess nor how long it will stay for.
A gift that tears at my insides before being born, ugly and beautiful and new.
email me: piokiwi@yahoo.com.au
Piokiwi 1:49 am
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