mom – Dear Jo-Anne

‘Meet Me There’ — by H. WEND

Image Credit: Tran Phu via Unsplash.

Written by H. WEND, May 17th, 2023.

I’m thinking about

the moments we spent together

within our daydreams.

My memories

of the family room in the back,

the hazy days

when the sun shined

through the windows

are fading.

Share yours with me,

and I’ll share mine.

Everything is within grasp.

Even a home beyond brass gates

sprawled across an acre or two.

Tell me about the colour blue—

curtains in your kitchen.

Tell me about the foyer table,

the vase,

and lily of the valley.

Share something sweet with me.

Tell me where you are,

lost in the daydream.

You’ve got that look in your eyes.

Meet me there—

we’ll talk about what will be.

Let’s get lost again,

over something sweet.

Where are you—

now?

It’s been so long.

I’ll build the things—

the home sprawled across green grass,

a circular driveway,

a bench beneath a great big tree.

I walk empty hallways,

holding something sweet,

untouched blue curtains,

furniture made of pine.

Walls your hands will never graze.

The hope I’d find you,

curled up on your bed—

fitted with floral-print sheets,

watching a midday film,

grows empty.

The only dreams I share with you—

now,

are the ones long gone

and the ones that awaken

when I fall sleep.

But dreams—

They’re all I have.

Dreams with empty halls,

a quiet kitchen with blue curtains,

and furniture made of pine.

Meet me there—

on the bench

beneath the great big tree.

© H. WEND 2023 Dear Jo-Anne

To My Favourite Mothers This Mother’s Day

Image Credit: Kevin Laminto via Unsplash.

Written by H. WEND, May 14th, 2023.

Mother’s Day isn’t quite what it used to be. For as long as I can remember, I have always known that I had a very special mother, that apart from strange blips in my adolescence, I always believed I was incredibly lucky to have had her. She was my life’s greatest blessing.

When Mother’s Day would come around, it was not nearly enough to celebrate and thank her, but it would come anyway, and I’d give her chocolate, slippers, breakfast in bed, and a card in the morning before the family gathered for a meal and chocolate cake.

The first Mother’s Day that came without my mother felt hollow, somewhat meaningless, annoying even. It still feels like an event I’m no longer invited to— Kicked out and shut out forever.

Cocoon

Image Credit: Vasilina Sirotina via Unsplash

Written by H. WEND. April 7th, 2023.

Five little ones sleeping peacefully- each of them positioned around their mother, close enough to reach out should a bad dream come their way. It was there, she prayed she would be able to hold them close for as long as time would allow.

When I was a little girl my siblings and I rarely slept in our bedrooms. Dad worked nights as a Taxi driver which meant the evenings were reserved for my mother and us kids. Evenings felt like another world, it was a hidden safe space.

Every night, after dinner and baths, my mother would slide our mattresses out of our bedrooms and lay them across the living room floor.

We would help by carrying out our blankets and pillows before finding a comfy place to snuggle in and watch TV shows before we went to sleep.

It was our cocoon.

Each of us fell asleep within an arms reach of each other, safe and sound.

The cocoon was warm, comforting and undetected by monsters and bad things.

There, in our cocoon, it seemed nothing could go wrong.

It was just a mother and her babies; my mother and us kids.

Miss Harvey’s Grief

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.

‘I Dreamt of You’ — by H. WEND

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.

I Dreamt of You

by H. WEND

The sky nearing sunset,
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’.
© H. WEND 2023 Dear Jo-Anne

Grief Feels Like…

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.

A Reminder This Christmas | Blogmas 2022

16th December 2022

This year, I am certainly trying to focus on the joy Christmas can bring. It’s been a very tough few years dealing with grief.

You may know that I created this blog after my mum passed away in 2019. My blog is addressed to her and I write for her. My first post was a piece I started writing during our last Christmas together.

It was the most difficult experience I’ve had and most definitely a Christmas that broke my heart. It was surreal and I struggled to truly digest what was happening- what used to be a shared and joyous occasion was heart-wrenching as my mum’s condition deteriorated.

Today, she is all I think about and with every Christmas following my mum’s death, the pain is still there. It’s that reminder that Christmas will never be the same and that it will always be tainted by my loss.

My own experiences of loss and grief has made me truly realise that tragedy happens no matter the season. Lately, this knowledge has felt very real and heavy in my heart.

Recent events have reminded me to take extra care of loved ones and myself this season, especially my grief and mental health. I am reminded to pay closer attention to loved ones and of the gratitude I feel to have them in my life today.

If there’s one thing I have learned so far, it’s that there is healing in the small things we do after our loss, like trying to find joy in Christmas again, but there is so much healing and comfort in keeping our connections.

With Christmas right around the corner and festivities in full swing, I think now is an important time to check in with others and yourself. Whether we are near or far apart, we can celebrate in joy and comfort each other through the difficult things.

These are the times to take a step back from the hustle and bustle, and really hold the people you love, make stronger connections and take thoughtful action.

The best gift is love.

Don’t forget to prioritise your wellbeing and remember what really matters this Christmas.

One Summer Night in 2018 — by H. WEND

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.