Categories
Life

Goodbye

No one would have seen it coming, least of all me. His death was inevitable: that part we all knew was coming.

But no one would have foreseen my reaction to it. Not the way it happened, not the way the emotional slideshow of me slowly played out like a blocked garden-hose building in pressure, waiting for the almighty explosion that eventually would come.

My Dad told me: ‘Aaron’s died.’ We were on our way home from our shared workplace, an hour and ten minute drive from the city to the country, where we lived. He did a good job, my Dad. Quiet. Calm. Matter of fact, but caring. My Aunty was the one that received the news. He’d been ill, which on top of the cystic fibrosis had finally proven too much for his already fragile body to handle. Someone should tell Brooke.

I’m not sure why Dad chose an hour long car ride to do it. Perhaps he and Mum felt it would allow me time to let it wash over me, I’m really not sure what they had expected. But one thing I do imagine they expected were tears.

There were none.

Not a single one.

When he’d broken up with me, I’d constructed a wall about a million miles high, and equally as wide to protect me from both the feeling of being rejected without proper means, and the feeling of loss I’d surely feel in the face of losing him. We both still cared for each other very much. Very much. Though, for family reasons that are a little too personal to share, here, he felt it best he protect his final years as best he could. By saying goodbye to me. I understood. Still, it hurt.

On New Years Eve (his very last one, as it would turn out) he called me at my Aunties house, where I’d escaped the boring walls of home for a much needed holiday. ‘Is Chookie there?’ he asked, to my Aunties amusement. I took the phone, smiled at my Aunty, and fell into our world, again. He’d missed me. I’d missed him, too. We laughed and chatted for a bit. Finally, we said goodbye.

A few months later, Aaron was gone. He was about twenty, from memory: I was eighteen. And I didn’t care at all that he was gone, and I absolutely would not be attending his funeral, so they could all just go on and forget about that, ridiculous nonsense.

The day of the funeral came. I got up, as usual, and made the long trip in with my Dad where I began my daily routine. Pick, pack, tape up the box. Pick, pack, tape up the box. I’m not sure what part of the work induced the explosion. Perhaps it was the ripping sound the tape makes when it whirls off the tape gun, or perhaps it was simply the fact that I was at work, in the first place. All anybody knew was that one moment I was fine. The next, I was wailing. Sobbing in the most out of control fashion I could muster.

My Dad took me to the train station. If I caught the early train, I should make it to the funeral on time, and so I boarded the V-Line back to the country and off I went to say my last goodbye to Aaron. Technically, not my Aaron, anymore. But, according to my heart…still very much, my Aaron, apparently.

The train ride was interesting. The poor lady across from me did her very best to pretend my dark sunglasses hid my tears (and quietened the accidental sob that sometimes escaped me. Meep.) The dusty town I arrived in was quiet, too. No one would notice as I wandered along the streets, searching for a church I’d never been to before, in a town I’d never been to before.

I wouldn’t ask for directions, either. More accurately, I couldn’t ask for directions, on account of me being that odd girl: too shy to talk to any human outside of her comfort zone. So I asked the universe for directions. My plan was (and this is no joke) to follow whichever direction my hair blew in the wind, because certainly whatever higher forces I was connected to would get me to the funeral. Bonus points if they got me there on time.

I walked. And walked. And walked.

Finally, and with no thanks at all to my hair, I found the church. A little late, but early enough. The funeral had just begun.

‘Chookie,’ Aaron’s beautiful Mum said, after the service, as she wrapped me in her arms, and thanked me for coming to say goodbye to her baby boy. She seemed happy to see me (really, really happy) and in that moment…I knew the explosion of me was meant to happen, that I was meant to be there. For Aaron, but for his beautiful family, too.

They may not have noticed my absence if I’d not gone: the church was overflowing with hundreds, all of whom, apparently, Aaron had touched with his cheekiness, joy and boundless wisdom, too.

But I was there. And his family did notice.

I was grateful.

Grateful the morning had brought about the most unexpected emotional explosion, ever to have rocked my world.

And grateful my inner walls had crumbled.

Right in the nick of time.

Photo by Rachel Claire on Pexels.com

Categories
Poetry

Everything Will Be Alright

Hush.

Close your eyes.

Breathe.

It’s alright.

Everything will be alright.

Categories
Poetry

Reality

Reality strikes hard, sometimes.

The pain.

The pain of others: it tears me to the bone.

The delicacy of life, its precious petals.

It all aches within this lithe human frame of mine.

Cold impermanence.

Startling truth.

Fragile life.

Sometimes it tears us.

And I know you don’t want to,

but let yourself see:

sometimes it tears us.

I will hold you when it tears you.

I will hold you.

I will hold you.

Categories
Poetry

The Same

Bliss

and

grief

are powerfully

confusingly

the same.

Categories
Life

Sleep

It’s 4:11am.

The waves of a broken life roll through me like an unwelcome surprise upon a drying shore.

I think about hot chocolate and the sound of the ocean, because they soothe me.

Thank goodness for hot chocolate and the ocean.

Perhaps I might open up and let them flow a little deeper into me.

Perhaps, then, I might sleep again.

Categories
Life

You Matter To Me

Reaching out my hand to you

forgetting what you’ve done,

there’s never any reason, dear

for you to turn and run.

 

Some days you may feel black and blue,

some loves will break your heart,

but every day will always be

the chance for a new start.

 

A million voices from outside

ignite the storm within,

but let this be your chance to say:

I WILL NOT LET YOU WIN.

 

Become the shine you know you are

and sing your song so true,

for never will there ever be

another quite like you.

* *. *

To all the beautiful humans struggling with guilt or shame or a broken heart. I see you. You are not broken, you are human, and you are all the lovely things.

You matter to me. No-matter-what.

Tomorrow, we begin again.

So much love, Brooke.

Categories
Life

Soar

Take these wings and soar, little friend.

Over the rainbow bridge,

and into the diamond sky

of our forever.

Categories
Life

When A Butterfly Takes Flight

It’s the broken heart of my life.

When the soft girl found me, she brought me the most beautiful things. She helped me to feel the trees, and sing with them into the sun. She helped me to turn my most beautiful aches into words— words that so often break my heart and mend my soul: the very thing my words were always meant to do.

But the soft girl has taken so many things from me, also.

And one of those things is my beautiful husband: the most loyal and beautiful friend I’ve ever known.

He is, and always will be, one of my most precious people (and I have a feeling that I will always be one of his.) But over time it became very obvious that our puzzle pieces just weren’t fitting together anymore, and we’ve finally come to admit the truth of that. To ourselves. And to each other. It’s been a bit of a tough time for both of us, needless to say.

At the moment, I’m still processing things emotionally, but as usual this place and the beautiful friends I’ve found here remain the superglue that holds me together— I will always be so grateful to you guys for that. (I’m getting a bit love-hearty again, aren’t I, guys? Lol. You know I’ll never stop.)

What I’m trying to say is: life is a little hard for me at the moment, but I’ll be okay. I’ve got my trees. I’ve got my music. I’ve got my two precious little people, and the promise of a brighter version of the Mum they already know.

And last but not least…I’ve got you. And you’ve got me. And because you’ve got me, you’ve got all the dreamy love hearts, always and forever.

Because that’s just the way this soft girl of mine rolls.

crop field under rainbow and cloudy skies at dayime
Photo by James Wheeler on Pexels.com

 

 

 

Categories
Poetry

In the Stars

Meet me in the stars

my precious little ones.

And we will dance

and play

and love

without the endings

human life

must eventually bring.

red and blue hot air balloon floating on air on body of water during night time
Photo by Bess Hamiti on Pexels.com

Categories
Life

Lemons and Life

When life gives you lemons, turn them into lemonade.

It’s a lovely saying, isn’t it? And it’s right up my alley in terms of the positivity it tosses in the face of life and it’s silly business.

***

I want to tell you a story. It’s a sad one, most would say. But to me, this story is one of my greatest sources of light in this world—and all because I’ve come to see the beauty of the lemons that were dealt to me.

I will say here, at this point, that this story involves the topic of pregnancy loss so, please—If you are going through a loss of your own and feel you are not ready to delve into the sadness of it all— know that you have my absolute blessing to skip the rest of this post. For the rest of you…let’s do this. Together.

In 2015, I experienced five miscarriages while trying to conceive my second child. There was varying degrees of trauma involved— emotional and physical— but the most devastating loss, perhaps, was the little muffin that lasted eleven weeks (as opposed to the six weeks which had been the average of the rest of the bunch.)

Anyway. Lemons. Probably the biggest, most bitter lemons of my entire life. This particular little muffin had me at the emergency department, and, given we already had a little one to look after at home…I’d be going this alone until the babysitter arrived. Ugh. Lemons.

After an hour or so of feeling like a hollow egg in a waiting room, my husband joined me and, at last, there was some comfort to fill me—he’d been relieved by our beloved brother in law, and knowing our little man was sleeping soundly in his cot, I breathed a sigh of relief. If he was to wake, my baby was in kind and gentle hands.

***

I often wonder who I’d be If not for those lemons. I’ll never be the girl I was ever again, that’s for sure. But now I’m this girl; this perfectly imperfect girl, who loves and laughs harder. Who falls and cries louder.

This girl— the joyously broken version of me—considers the lemons of this life and thinks thank bloody goodness for them. Thank goodness for the gifts those lemons brought me (and there were many on my miscarriage journey, despite all the bitterness. Some of them because of all the bitterness.)

Perhaps the most profound gift for me involved that night in the emergency room: the night that, at the time, I figured to be the most awful of my life. Well. As it turned out…it was one of the greatest.

Because as I sat in the emergency room, sucking on that great big ugly lemon, my little boy—chubby cheeked and two years old—woke from his sleep and realised Mummy wasn’t there. Daddy wasn’t there, either.

But someone wonderful was: his super fun uncle.

So, in the dark of my little boy’s room, comforted by the gentle sway of the flower rocking chair, uncle and nephew snuggled, heart to heart. And there was peace and there was joy and there was love.

And, though I had no idea at the time, while I was in hospital cursing the bitter taste of my lemons…those same lemons were building something beautiful. At home. In the shape of two of my most wonderful people melting into the hearts of each other.

How’s about them lemons, hey?

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