Writing by H. WEND
Image Credit: Alexander Grey via Unsplash.
Written by H. WEND. January 12th, 2023.
Miss Harvey was a young teacher, in her early to mid twenties. She had short red hair and freckles. I adored her. She was beautiful, upbeat and goofy. She was my kindergarten teacher.
One day, Miss Harvey came in and she was quiet. Throughout the morning it became more apparent that something was wrong.
Continue reading “Miss Harvey’s Grief”Image Credit: Ithalu Dominguez via Pexels.
Written by H. WEND. January 5th, 2023.
Today marks 4 years since my mum’s passing, which seems absolutely surreal. Today, I thought I’d share a piece of writing I made recently in thought of her.
by H. WEND
The sky nearing sunset,
© H. WEND 2023 Dear Jo-Anne
We sat on a hill;
Our favourite place.
Lush green grass beneath us,
A bed of sunflowers.
Just us and the world.
As it had always been.
We were watching the sky,
As the sun began to fall;
Soft pink and orange hues,
Purple ink bled through scattered clouds.
I saw the evening light touch your face…
Your skin, your green speckled eyes–
Illuminated by the light.
It was as if,
Maybe,
You had never left.
The wind blew a gentle breeze.
I took a deep breath.
Suddenly, I realised the depth
Of missing you.
Desperation filled my lungs,
My heart grew heavy.
“Mum,” I whispered,
“I don’t want this to end.”
The wind grew stronger,
Singing as it swirled around us.
You smiled, took my hand in yours,
And, you said,
“We don’t have much longer,
Stay in this moment with me.”
Then you nodded toward the sunset;
An array of the most beautiful colours
Painted across the sky before us.
And us,
At the edge of night.
Our world;
Slowly fading, slowly fading.
It was painstakingly beautiful,
It was all too familiar,
It was ‘Goodbye’.
17th December 2022
Grief kind of feels like that time- when I was four years old- I had terrifying nightmares and I would wake up crying and beg my mum to call the police so they could take the bad dreams away.
My mum would hold me tight and whisper softly “Hannah, everything will be okay.”
It seemed that the only relief I truly needed in that moment was to be held in my mother’s arms.
Although I look back now and find the idea of calling the police on a bad dream funny, in essence this scenario is exactly how grief sometimes feels for me.
It’s the nightmare, the inescapable agony that no one else can see or feel. There is no remedy but to hope it goes away.
Invisible, terrifying, powerful.
In my experience with grief, the difference is that this time the nightmare is real, there is no waking up and what’s worse is that I cannot be held in my mother’s arms.
Image Credit: Anne Nygård via Unsplash.
Written by H. WEND. August 10th, 2022.
It’s a warm summer night. Nothing but the rattle of a portable air-conditioning unit, seemingly at the end of its short life too, hanging on just for you.
I’ve just finished decorating the house one last time. One last Christmas we will spend together.
It’s 10.24pm. Late. I’ve never been early to sleep, or rise, but now I find it especially hard to close my eyes at night.
I sit at your bedside, observing every breath you take. Tonight you look to be having the most peaceful sleep on earth but I’m scared you will slip away at any moment. And now it has been a while since you’ve woken to speak with me, I wonder if you ever will again. I wonder if this is truly where I lose you.
Continue reading “One Summer Night in 2018 — by H. WEND”
Dear Jo-Anne 