Grief Digest Articles

PJ MoonIt ruptured through the curtains;once veiled, now seen. Though unbelieving, stilted portraits stumble along a stony path in the mind.What wishes, what cravings go unfulfilled.It uttered through the curtains;once mute, now with voice.Its shadowy yarns and unwelcome reminders both instruct and slam.What of my wish to be afforded those days again?How sorry is my heart to have been so thoughtless?Its skulking droning grips me through the curtains.Its dim, unadorned speech rattles my caged mem …

By Patricia Roop HollingerMy Dad, at the age of 91, had yet another farm related accident. He had already survived being kicked by a horse in his early 20’s, having his right arm amputated when it had gotten entangled under a mower blade and several major heart operations. For him, this latest one just presented him with yet another challenge of how he would adjust to having his hip replaced.The operation was scheduled for the next day and in light of the flurry of activity that my mother and I …

By Jacqueline Eberle On New Year’s Day 2002 at 5:30 am, my phone rang; it was my brother-in-law. When I picked up the phone, I was informed that my father had passed away. My response was “What? What happened? “ My brother-in-law told me that my sister would be coming over to pick me up to go to my parents’ home; before he hung up, he told me he was sorry for the family’s loss.When I hung up the phone, all I could think of while I was getting dressed was, “Why did you smoke so much and n …

By Helly Eaton The wishbone tree is a simple but special place in the wilds of West Dorset. It’s set on high ground with to-die-for views (he did), and we scattered Robin’s ashes there (‘ashes’ still sounds so surreal…) I go there a lot to sit and stare, to think, to wish for better things, to talk to Robin and to listen. Thoughts, feelings, plans and messages trickle (and sometimes rush) through my mind. These are just a few of them…Walking with Freya on the hill is about all I can do some …

By Sandra Tow On that morning in January, the only things I could focus on in the room were my anger at the irony my mother was about to face a real killer and the tinny voice radiating from the television over my shoulder bemoaning the premature death of an actor who’d lost himself in an imaginary character. I watched my mother fuss and pick at the tip of the surgical tape stuck to the toe of the new fuzzy socks I’d just given her for Christmas; the Christmas I knew deep in my soul would b …