In all the busyness of Christmas and New Years I stopped writing. I almost wish I could feel like a failure for it but just now all I can feel is tired. Tired of the dullness of work, tired of having to share a house, tired of not being able to afford things…. and tired of being sad. Christmas was a hard time for my family, it being the first one without my grandmother. We set a place for her at the dinner table, poured out wine for her and shared stories. We played her favourite songs and watched her favourite Christmas specials. My mum cried a lot. I cried in secret, sneaking away to hide my tears when it all got too much. I felt bad, like my grief intruded on hers, an unwelcome visitor. I only showed my heartache in my poems about it – for some reason she likes reading them, weak and unpolished though they are.
But I realised that maybe that’s the thing about poems. Maybe it’s not just the way the words chime together but also the meaning of the words themselves – the raw emotion that you can relate to, that gives words to what you wish you could express, that proves that someone, somewhere, understands.
The last couple months have been a whirlwind of work, routine and desperately trying to feel normal again. It’s a slow, painful process. But here I stand, still trying. The sun is shining, the sky is blue, and me? I’m okay. And for now, that is enough.