I seem to be having trouble writing lately. It feels as though since he died a void has opened within me and I can’t seem to fill it with the things that normally make sense to me. I try and sit down to my novel and all that looks back at me is an empty page. The intention is there and I know what I want to say but something has been lost in the translation and I’m left waiting.

I begin to think that maybe I should try something else. Write something else. But what can I say? Should I write about the heaviness in my heart that seems to have settled, the memories upon my fingertips that won’t let me rest? Should I write about the ghosts I see in the street, the faces I pass that I’m so sure could be his?

Loss is a funny thing. In the beginning you are drowning, kept afloat by others who happen to be either drowning with you or fighting to keep you all afloat. These people that you find yourself surrounded by become connected to you by this invisible little thread of collective despair. They make you feel strong by just being there but also make you feel weaker than ever through the levels of vulnerability you find yourself falling into.

There comes a point in time however where the people begin to fall back. They have lives that they cannot keep turning away from and you have a life that you have to begin to salvage and rebuild. You keep yourself busy because the busyness distracts you. You keep yourself happy because the happiness distracts you. You keep yourself strong because there is nothing else. But eventually the day will end and you will have to fall into bed, or into a chair in the corner of the room. It is there within those quiet moments where you start to feel incredibly alone. Faced with only yourself then, you realise how very much this has all taken from you.

One day you’ll be okay, and you know this too. But maybe just not today.


Just a Little Tribute…

I lost someone very important to me. Our history together was so rich and complex and so cobble-stoned with memories that thinking about it now is like reopening the scar and bleeding afresh. I crossed mountain ranges with this person and waded through the dark depths of a vast and unending blackness. I rejoiced with them and cried with them and I feel privileged to be one of the few people in his life to have known him completely both in heart and soul.

He had a smile that if caught was like holding onto a butterfly, full of glee and childish reminisce. And in those moments the world could have been crumbling and I wouldn’t have minded, because his joy was so full and complete that nothing else quite existed. A thousand words could never truly express the sorrow and the regret that I carry with his passing. But I have tried to condense them into a poem that I hope will help both he and I to say goodbye.



I never thought that I’d be envious of the moon,
Who watches ever-knowingly over our loves and lives and falls,
But it is through her reflection now that I will find you,
Cradled within her light as she dances with the shore.

I imagine you there upon the waves that always healed you,
Floating on your back with the glee of hope held in your eyes,
I imagine you tranquil and still in that slow black,
Listening to the hum of the ocean as she sighs.

I know I cannot keep you and it would be selfish of me to try,
When there are so many horizons now for you to roam,
So though I’m envious of the moon I know she carries you to peace,
And so I’ll let her light hold you and guide you home.

© Tahlea Eastwood 2016