A bit of grief

I know a bit of grief.

 It's the moment you realise

you cannot go back on your steps

to make it better

or say I love you again

 see someone's face every day,

hear their laugh, trace the outline of their smile,

hold their hand or hug them.

When you learn what it feels like to run out of time.

No more silent pauses in conversations

seeing them across the table,

passing the salad bowl at dinner.

All of those moments you take for granted

stop in your mind,

they are gathered up in memories

and the grieving begins.

I've learnt grief isn't bad,

it's all we have, really,

for our tears are our love

which used to go out

towards those we love.

After they are gone, it has nowhere to go,

so our unexpressed love

becomes our grief.

And as our passion is as undying,

as our mourning.

This strange sadness will never leave

not until our dying days.

It comes over us in the most unlikely moments

in the tiny flickers of memories

the flutter of butterflies

a microscopic movement is enough the overcome us.

Sometimes it's like a tap that

we need to open to let the pressure out.

But mostly, grief is a dark veil that wraps around

our hope, our happiness and faith

and covers our organs which 

find they have an extra weight to carry

the resistance makes it harder to breathe

love and move forward when we don't

want to.

It may seem ironic

but I hope we never

stop grieving

because it keeps our

dearly departed near us.

Life doesn't stop

when someone dies,

it merely shifts

and changes into another

gear and somehow

we live with it.

Nothing to know about grief

The thing about losing something

is that there is nothing to know.

It's an emotion that takes hold of you

pushes you around like a bully that doesn't let up.

You put up with it, let it bleed you dry,

cry yourself to sleep until it loses its strength.

And then you can push it under you, into your heart

Occasionally it will bubble up, making you vomit emotions.

Eventually, it will become a part of you

reminding you how capable you are of love

and how love never really leaves you.

The stuff of cemeteries

When life becomes a thing of cold hard marble.

When your touch feels the chill

of placing your hand on a tomb.

Searching for warmth and another's touch

when nothing is left but the emptiness of absence.

That is when grief is in your heart.

The chill remains with you every day

I was lucky to have you,

hold you.

Be in your company because this moment is

ever so brief and precious.

You can never hold onto anything

just the love in our hearts

which echoes and reverberates through

bereaved souls.

When things become the stuff of cemeteries and funerals

when the touch of cold marble tombstones

are little consolation against the heat of fresh grief.

When death falls all around you

then that is the time to stop and breathe

hold onto the ones you love

it is impossible to say goodbye

so make memories

search out happiness and

follow what gives you the spark

which is life itself.

Reflections on Mother's Day from a bereaved mother

I’m not good with Mother’s Day. I don’t think anyone else who has lost a child ever can be a hundred percent happy with celebrating motherhood when they will always be missing their child. It’s an ache that never really leaves you sometimes, it’s a dull throbbing you can almost put up with, and you seem to get on with life for a while.

On other days the grief is so powerful that it squeezes your inner organs and makes the tears well up whether you want to or not, and you have to stop, acknowledge it, and let it all flow out. I thought I could open and close the tap, but if the water pressure builds up, your pipes will burst. Who knew grief could be described so aptly with a plumbing metaphor? Life is surprising.

Lately, the emotions snuck up on me in a pretty unique way. It will be 15 years since I lost my firstborn little girl, Estella Carmela Desiree. She was stillborn.

Estella got all tangled up with her umbilical cord. The doctor who performed my cesarean and untangled her said her long cord was wrapped three times around her neck, and as she turned around into the birthing position, her foot pulled at it, and she suffocated. It was a freak accident, like a child playing, hitting its head, and suddenly dying. I still can’t believe such a thing can happen in the womb. You’d think the womb is the safest place to be. I didn’t feel anything, and it would have been impossible to know. Even the doctor said to save a child, you’d have to be lucky enough to be monitoring him at the precise moment he is in distress, and even then, there would be no guarantee that you’d be able to save them in time.

I lost Estella at thirty-eight weeks, towards the end of my pregnancy, when everyone knew and was preparing for her arrival. I was expecting to hold her in my arms.

Instead, I woke up with a terrible sense of emptiness and longing that had never left me. I remember the pain of the operation, the nurse who made me stand up, the blood that ran down my leg, staining my slippers, and the sense that the whole pregnancy and suffering had been for nothing.

The ripple effect of Estella’s loss was felt collectively through my friends and family. They were all as heartbroken as I was. But you try to be brave. You wake up in the morning and try to function even though you are missing a part of yourself. I felt as if I’d lost my faith, my hope, a piece of my identity or soul. I felt so lost for the longest time. Even today, there is nothing worse for your self-worth than losing a child.

If grief has ever taught me anything, it is that it comes from love. The more deeply you love the thing or person you grieve, the deeper and more heartfelt your grief will be. Even though losing Estella felt like dying, I am comforted that my grief comes from a love I’d never experienced before. 

I have this theory about love; it’s something that you absolutely cannot control; you have to let it out of you, or else you’re going to burst a blood vessel. Love cannot be contained; it’s bigger than we are. That’s why people are said to be glowing when they fall in love. People do stupid things when they are in love because they don’t know how to express what they feel; it’s often overwhelming.

I find the love I have for Estella never really leaves me, whether you believe the child’s soul stays near or that she is somehow haunting me. I prefer to say she’s still in my mind, in my thoughts, and she manifests herself in one way or another. Her birth/death date is coming up on the fourteenth of May, so I know I’ll begin to feel emotional. I try to say a prayer, light a candle or visit her grave at the cemetery, something to commemorate her.

Photo by Markus Winkler on Unsplash

The fact that the year my daughter was born (2007), the date of her birth coincided with Mother’s Day etched itself into my subconscious. So much so that on the morning of Mother’s Day this year (the eighth of May). The other day I woke up at five am after the strangest dream. I dreamt that my house had been robbed. 

Then the realization hit me. During the week, I’d been following the story of Denise Pipitone, who had disappeared at Mazara del Vallo in the province of Trapani nearly 20 years ago. Sympathizing with her mother, Piera Maggio, who still believes her daughter is alive. The press revisited the case after a Russian girl who had an uncanny resemblance to Denise was found. However, a DNA test confirmed she wasn’t Denise. I remember thinking that’s how I felt, as if my daughter had been stolen from me. An irrational part of me is still waiting, longing for her presence in my life. So the dream wasn’t about my house being robbed; it was about those emotions, the sensation I still have in the pit of my stomach that I’d been robbed of my daughter. 

The tears came welling up. I hadn’t cried for Estella for a while, so I must have needed to express my love for her once again. So I let them flow. It is so unfair to be denied your child, but there is nothing much you can do when something like this happens. The best thing is always to remember them, say their name, include them in conversations, in everyday family life, and talk about them with your friends. If you have pictures, keep them close; visit them if you have a gravesite. 

I have a particular little shrine in my house with photos of my grandparents and Dad. Estella is represented by a small glass vase of crystal flowers. I’m always speaking with Estella, and everything I write expresses my love for her. The grief therapist I saw after her loss said that I’d be fine because my writing would help me, and it does.

Mother’s Day is difficult because I lost Estella, but it is also tricky because of her little brother Matthias who was born two years after her. Because now I have to be a mother to him. I have to be brave for him; he cannot see me crying. I need to be present for him. We do speak of Estella, and he loves her very much. But he, too, is very much aware of her absence in our lives, and it is a void to fill.

It’s difficult for me to see so many expecting mothers on social media showing off their pregnant bellies. Don’t get me wrong, I love babies, and I’m always happy for other women having babies. But the sharing of intimate photos brings back so many memories of my trauma. I wish people would be more sensitive to others’ losses. One in four people has lost a child, whether it be through miscarriage, abortion, stillbirth, SIDS, illness, or other terrible incidents that steal children from their mothers, fathers, and family.

When my son was born, I kept him to myself. I shared his photos only with friends and family because I didn’t want to trigger other people’s grief. I’d very rarely share anything personal about Matthias; even now that he is 12 years old, I still don’t put him on public display.

I’d say to anyone on social media that yes, your child is beautiful, unique, and loved, but this public forum is not the place to share. You can share little proud moments and snippets, but this isn’t what social media is about. It’s more about advertising, selling products and networking, not sharing personal things. I’d also debate if social media is not even the place to share opinions, but that’s another topic.

There’s no harm in wishing everyone a happy Mother’s Day, celebrating your mother, or sharing a newborn photo. It’s just about being aware of other people’s struggles. Those that feel the sadness in their hearts when they remember their pregnancies. And those who are still struggling in their motherhood journeys.

A celebrity will always push their brand or sell their photos for more followers or influence. Honestly, there is no need to publish your entire maternity photoshoot; you aren’t famous.

So please be gentle to mothers who are suffering, to those crying into their pillows in the early morning of Mother’s Day or on their angel child’s Birthday.

Please, be kind, empathetic and sensitive to others.

Choosing to honour

Don't honour the famous and wealthy grey-haired film stars and businessmen

they are too comfortable and aren't struggling

they don't need honouring, they have found success and comfort.

We need to honour those who are living with struggles greater than themselves

and who do so without complaint.

I honour the single mother trying to make it to the end of the month

with five dollars in her pocket, working double shifts,

trying to feed her babies.

I honour the refugees whose homeland has been blown to pieces

Who have no choice but to leave behind their whole world and have to start their lives over.

I honour the army veterans who returned home broken people, used up by the army

unable to readjust, with trauma

limping through their lives, marching onto

oblivion without thanks or acknowledgement of their sacrifices.

I honour the bereaved parent who has suffered through the unnatural act of burying their child

or children.

The mother's and father's of adult children torn away at their prime, adolescents who show so much promise, children, newborns or those who never knew anything but the womb.

God only knows how they continue to breathe even though they have lost their best parts.

I honour the creative who keeps creating for the love of it.

For every artist who succeeds, hundreds will never be appreciated, published, seen or listened to.

For every criticism, self-sabotage may there be many who breakthrough

and lift every other artist.

I honour the sons and daughters who care for infirm parents.

Just as they were cared for, now the old become children again.

That they may have the same patience and love that every good mother is blessed with.

For every survivor, whose broken heart keeps beating.

Anyone who has a soul weighed down with trauma.

I honour their strength and pray for forgiveness while shifting the burden of their memories.

I honour abandoned children and those who help them to learn to trust again.

I honour the queer and gender-fluid, whoever have suffered through hate, self-loathing and toxic relationships

All lost souls who have been treated without dignity or as outcasts.

To all who have found love and acceptance despite everything, they have been through.

Those who have survived violence, illness and alienation.

Above all, I honour those who have not survived.

I remember you, I see you, I feel you in my heart.

Love overcomes adversity because love is love is love.

Who do you honour?

I see

I see right through you

and into your wild madness

like a transparent teardrop

a bubble that bursts and dissipates

trickling down my leg

and into the ground

drying up in the sun

an anticlimax, all but forgotten.

Nightmare

I dreamt of two thick red devils

with grotesque heads

who were at the edge of hell

one was eating a baby

the others throbbing penis

dragging on the ground

they were babbling to one another

I knew I was in hell

I was so sad

I did not know what to do

I was being tortured for my sins.

Still here

Love is still here for you

as I light a candle

in front

of your photo

I remember how your grandson and I

smothered you with hugs and kisses

the last time we said goodbye

Our love for you remains

here suspended in the air

you are intertwined in these

three words.

Tangled

Sometimes I get tangled up with everyday life.

One fine, straight cotton thread becomes entwined

around my family, work, children and economic situation.

Once it was easy to thread a needle and get to work as I please

now the loop is twisted and turned upon itself around others

and then back to me.

The more I try to pull away from it the tighter it becomes.

Like those poor sea lions and marine animals caught up in plastic

fishing lines cutting into their own skin

around mouths, restricting movement until they starve to death

Could I cut myself out?

What would be left of me?

The thread is cutting off chunks of flesh

surely there won't be much of myself left

the tangle is too tight to be unthread.

Ghosts

My home is filled with ghosts

it is a haunted house.

Like those eerie places

where holocausts have occurred

covered in a thick layer of genocidal misery

from violent acts that have torn souls 

away from this world.

The spirits and bad energy linger in the air

making me uneasy

giving me goosebumps

and the strange sensation

someone is trying to whisper something to me

but I cannot make out the words.

Memories flash in my mind as I am where my childhood was played out.

Each step brings me back to the memories and people who will never return.

For one moment and I am a child.

I wish I had been kinder, taken more time to appreciate them.

I turn to look for those beautiful souls, and they are gone 

like that sinking feeling when a once vibrant house is now still

the soul is abscent.

I'm always more and more alone as family and friends disappear.

One moment they are here, I can touch them, I feel them,

talk to them, bask in their company, have their advice

and support.

Their laughter and tears are my music.

Then there is silence, and the memories haunt me reminding me they are gone,

my home is filled with ghosts.

Endeavour

A funny thing about the heart

is that it keeps beating

even though it's broken.

Even if the pieces go missing

it still keeps you alive.

Unless it has something else wrong with it

the heartbreak won't kill you.

Even though you feel dead on the inside

it keeps ticking along.

Why? Because that's the way life is supposed to be lived

always shuffling forward.

Children are pushing the years onwards impatiently

willing the time to move more quickly,

youth makes us want to run

in a hurry to achieve something.

Other moments life make us stop

like smashing into a light pole at high speed.

We survive the car crashes life gives us,

 slowly re-habilitating ourselves,

because even though we are forced to stop at times

to catch our breath, we never can stop the moment.

It helps us this motion, keeps us putting one foot in front of the other

this gives us a future to look forward to, a past filled with memories,

a way to cope with loss, disappointment and grief.

We are humans who survive it all, growing through strength and love.

Passing on our intuition, drive and knowledge onto the universe

who takes us always onwards.

About grief

I know a little bit about grief.

It's the moment you realise

you cannot go back on your own steps

you can't make it better

or say I love you again

 see someone's face every day,

hear their laugh, trace the outline of their smile,

hold their hand or give them a hug.

When you learn what it feels like to run out of time.

No more silent pauses in conversations

seeing them across the table,

passing the salad bowl at dinner.

All of those moments you take for granted

stop in your mind,

they are gathered up in memories

and the grieving begins.

I've learnt grief isn't bad,

it's all we have, really,

for our tears are our love

which used to go out

towards those we love.

After they are gone it has nowhere to go,

so our unexpressed love

becomes our grief.

And as our passion is as undying,

as our mourning.

This will never leave

not until our dying days.

It may seem ironic

but I hope we never

stop grieving

because it keeps our

dearly departed near us.

Life doesn't stop

when someone dies,

it merely shifts

and changes into another

gear and somehow

we live with it.

Death's garden

The idea came to commemorate my dearest ancestors

by planting them a garden.

Lavander sprigs for stillborn Estella.

Delicate violets from Nonna’s garden.

An all-enveloping ivy that covers and embraces

everything for Nonno.

Daddy would be an aubergine flower as that's

what he left for us in his garden.

Mum will be an exotic caper flower after she is gone.

I will plant them on my skin,

they will slowly grow up my arm

and cover my body in death's garden.

Added to with every loss

I choose a new plant to sow

for my family and friends

and add to the artwork

with each ghost.

Death's love affair

Death loves us deeply

like a child gathering flowers

and leaving them to dry in the sun

He cannot resist the beauty

of our immortal souls

which shimmer and glow

before his eyes

He loves the warmth which comes

from our hearts, the energy

which emanates from our lives

he is infatuated.

What love death has for us

he cannot stop himself

from touching and caressing

with every touch

he takes a piece of us

slowly stealing our lives

His gentle embrace is a lover

trying to possess his love

he makes fear disappear

overcome by a passion

deeper than ourselves

we are helpless

despite life’s distractions

we surrender to

the love affair

of death.

This poem is from the poetry collection zine Trinacria Poems currently available on Amazon

Read more about what I’ve been creating and how to support me here on The Art of Asking page.

Autumn of my life

The tired gardens of Autumn are beginning to slumber, dry out and wither.

The smell of rotting fruit is somewhat enticing like burnt cake, pungent and warm

everything is left to rot, too late to ripen and even to be picked or eaten.

Rotten stink bugs rub themselves with us, our clothes buzzing in their attempts

to flee and fly away.

I grab one inside my fist and throw it making it fly even if it doesn’t want to,

 it leaves behind its perfume on my palm

a strange incense smell that many think is disgusting

The odour reminds me of these short gloomy days with intermittent bursts of sunshine

and the inevitable promise of the encroaching winter

that bring moments of deathly silence.

Strangely these are my favourite days

to reflect and create upon.

The Olive Tree

Bury me, there under the olive tree

where my ancestors sighed as they worked

where they whipped up dustbowls and thorns

where the songs and prayers were once sung

with tired voices and broken bodies

on whose branches some hung to harvest

and others to choke the very life out of themselves.

I want to rest under the ancient olives filled with endless spirits

and where the ghosts wait to possess innocent souls 

each tree growing around in knotted branches, tying themselves

into the ground, holding onto the magical fruit

which revives the weary and contains the flavour of life.

There where the work is done like a religious rite,

with honest hands stained in dark oil spots

together with families who warmed themselves

with the hot coal filled conca 

moved from tree to tree

during the once dark winter.

Where everything felt inevitable, everyone knew

their place, where the work was true and when done

you could rest.

The Bearded Lady

The bearded lady shaves off her beard

what a strange sensation

her skin tingles

the upper lip so smooth

she is almost cold

as erotic as a Brazilian wax

feeling naked she strangely misses

her fuzzy covering.

As strangers look at her

she realises no one knows

about her beard

only the subtle lines

of her pale face, dimpled chin

and a strong jawline.

Beneath her mask she is beautiful

but she never acknowledges it

or feels her power

she is always hiding, meekly behind

her overwhelming insecurities

she had left it too late

to be free from her plumage

past her prime, she rubs her

smooth cheeks and wonders who

she might have seduced

in her youth

if she had the courage

to shave before

then she suddenly desires her beard.

The trauma of broken things

I carry my fear like a heavyweight

many kilos of fat

pushing down on my bones

making my movements slow

and wearing down my momentum.

I'll never allow fear to make its

home in me

I hope it moves on

I push it away.

A violent act forced fear into my life

like so many random accidents,

which happen when no one expects

so much bigger than any one person

forcing us to live with

the trauma of broken things.