on grief

Once upon a time, there was a little girl, growing up alone. She wrapped around herself a world of words and pages, of musty library books smelling of all the minds they had touched before, of ancient, enduring wisdom, of paper and sawdust and the deep green forests that lay beyond the pages, stretching in her imagination all the way to the sea. She hid herself away in nooks and corners, behind a sofa, beneath a sheet draped over a bunk bed, weaving in her own childish way, little worlds.

But she wished desperately for siblings.

And then one day, when she was eleven, her twin brothers were born, and she emerged into a world of light and laughter and joy, keeping with her the in a separate corner the world of imagination she relied on.


Together, the three of them grew up, grew older, grew closer. Until one day the unthinkable happened.

Christmas Eve, 2008, one brother grew very sick. Suddenly, without warning, at the age of 14, he fell asleep, and for four months, they kept vigil by his side. At times he looked serene and calm, at others violently disturbed, like a version of sleeping beauty gone terribly wrong. They slept each night in fear of the morning and woke each morning with a dread for the day. He grew paler and weaker, all bones and bedsores. And then, one morning, he was gone.

She retreated, stung and hurt, a piece of her heart cut away forever, pushing away from everything. She stopped writing, she stopped reading, she stopped. She relives in her mind images of four horrific, agonizing months until she feels a madness overtake her. She goes through the motions, goes to work, comes home, performs tasks automatically, numb. About a year on, she remembers her brother’s love of words, remembers how much of herself she saw in him, sees before her the other brother, the one who survived. And so, she picks herself up. She writes again.

That girl is back. That girl is me.