Thank you for saying that. I didn’t even own a phone for years because who wants a bell in one’s house that anybody in the world can ring at any time of day or night? But people insisted when we were home on annual leave from Africa, so I caved to social pressure, and guess what? The first call I got was from a friend in Zimbabwe who asked if I could get him information on a certain fried franchise.
If it wasn’t for that belief among the young, war would either stop immediately, or else some cranky old bastards would be going at one another with baseball bats, and how could that ever be a bad thing?
Your words describe the raw gutwrenching grief of terrible loss. My brother once said, "This kind of grief happens daily all over this world. And it DOES! Beautifully expressed Switter, the pen is truly mightier than the sword!
The grief you described is so real. You put those feelings into words. It reminds me of the people who died unexpectedly, and I wasn’t able to say what was in my heart and goodbye. I replay it often.
It’s as if someone reaches into your body and pulls out your heart and stomach.
That said, what an amazing sense of place you’ve evoked, the geography and the weight of weather, partners joining the distance from family to impose grief deeper upon you.
When we lived in Africa, it seemed a long way to home, but an unexpected thing happened when our babies were born. Wherever we were with them was home.
I experienced a lot of trauma around the alarming sound of landline phones. I would jump with dread. This only passed when I got rid of my landline.
Too many calls. Cuts like a knife.
Thank you for saying that. I didn’t even own a phone for years because who wants a bell in one’s house that anybody in the world can ring at any time of day or night? But people insisted when we were home on annual leave from Africa, so I caved to social pressure, and guess what? The first call I got was from a friend in Zimbabwe who asked if I could get him information on a certain fried franchise.
😵💫
😂😂
I'm sorry. And I'm grateful for your words. Why is it that so many of those we lose too young are the ones who seemed unbreakable?
If it wasn’t for that belief among the young, war would either stop immediately, or else some cranky old bastards would be going at one another with baseball bats, and how could that ever be a bad thing?
Your words describe the raw gutwrenching grief of terrible loss. My brother once said, "This kind of grief happens daily all over this world. And it DOES! Beautifully expressed Switter, the pen is truly mightier than the sword!
And I was with that brother of yours again yesterday!
Thannk you, Sandy.
YOU are so lucky to be able to spend time with him. He has been a comforting presence ALL of my life. Give him a hug from me next time you see him.
I always do. I want to be like him!
Me too!
"tones of grief." Words enough.
I'm remembering my father's voice over the phone telling me how my nephew fell of the mountain and would never walk again.
"....while I stared blindly across the ruins of an unhappy city
sleeping below the snows
of an immense white mountain
that floated above all things.
It had no beauty;
only raw and sullen vastness."
Sadly, those words say grief in such a profound way. I'm sorry you lost your cousin and I thank you for sharing these words.
The grief you described is so real. You put those feelings into words. It reminds me of the people who died unexpectedly, and I wasn’t able to say what was in my heart and goodbye. I replay it often.
It’s as if someone reaches into your body and pulls out your heart and stomach.
That said, what an amazing sense of place you’ve evoked, the geography and the weight of weather, partners joining the distance from family to impose grief deeper upon you.
I feel heard and understood, Patris. It’s wonderful.
We’re a far flung group, our family. Reading this felt as real as it’s like.
We are, too. Less so than it once was.
When we lived in Africa, it seemed a long way to home, but an unexpected thing happened when our babies were born. Wherever we were with them was home.