Pen and Paper

I had no speech, so I wrote.

I wrote until the pen ran dry and my mind was quiet.

John's Mother

Today I saw the mother of a school-mate who passed away about three years ago. She was washing her car. This was the first time I'd seen her since John's funeral, and until today, every time I had walked past their house I'd imagined her as the broken woman I saw on that grey day in January.

Ignorant as I know I must sound, it always surprises me to see how resilient our bodies are when it comes to grief. (I say bodies because I won't even pretend to have a clue about what is going on in her head.) I'm talking about physical functionality, here. I mean, when you've lost your only son, how on earth do you get out of bed the next morning? How do you step one foot in front of the other?

In my ignorance I've always imagined that when hit with something as destructive as that, everything just stops. And so watching John's mother today, I was mesmerized.What was she thinking? It's very likely that it could have just been that the car looked like shit and needed a clean. Maybe her days are clouded with visions of John and his mess of blond curls. Or maybe not... I really don't know. I never will. But I'll always think of her as I walk down that quiet street in Burwood where a young boy with a skateboard once lived.

Places I have been.