‘I also know that if we are to live ourselves, there comes a point at which we must relinquish the dead, let them go, keep them dead.’ (Didion, 2005, p131)

Early 2014

My nephew asks what happens if we move house. And Connor is in the cemetery.

What a question.

What a question.

Ain’t gonna happen.


End of.

I walk to work from the bus stop in town. Wide open space. So much sky. St Giles. Quiet tears. Unspeakable pain.


We move north. I ease into a ‘Connor is always in my heart’ groove. It kind of works. A lessening of pain and devastation. Of reminders.

I carry him in my heart.

Do you?

YES. No.

YES. [Howl]

Christmas. 2022.

I cry when Will pitches up. Sleeping in the back of the car. Four years in Japan. Bringing a sackful of fragmented childhood memories. A precious loop of disconnection. Of Christmas Past. Of so much passing. Time. Life. Change. Love.

So much so new. Connor is still dead.

My throat aches so, I can barely breathe.