the washing machine of grief

Forget the seven stages of grief, it’s old news, too formulaic, and not representative of the experience. The seven stages supposedly go like this: shock and denial, pain and guilt, anger and bargaining, depression, reflection and loneliness, The Upward Turn, reconstruction and working through and finally, acceptance and hope. It’s a tidy notion, and I…

in the silence there is nothing

Platypus Rock is a place where nothing happens. I’ve been back a few times since we scattered Libby’s ashes. I’ve walked down for a look and I’ve ridden down, too. When I ride, I park at the top of the big hill and take the trail, it’s a fast descent, slippery in places because of…

home is where her ashes is

So. Monday. Five of us, Platypus Rock, and my sister’s ashes. The box is plastic, almost the size of a loaf of bread, and it’s heavy, I’d say nearly two kilos. We’ve been told to bring a spoon so we can get the lid off. Libby’s partner, Darren, carries the box snug in his arm…

when tomorrow comes

Tomorrow it will be a year since my little sister Libby died. It’s been a big year. It’s lucky I know my neighborhood well because I have driven its streets in tears. I took showers in tears, I rode hills crying, had coffees with friends in tears. Sunglasses are good for this, playing it solo…