This blog post is from journaling I did a small while ago when processing the passing of my grumpy, beautiful, mischievous much missed dad. It was my privilege and my pain to be with him as he passed. The picture is a rose, his favourite flower, he tended his rose garden with such a dedicated heart (he was no gardener, it was huge). And a rose is a traditional flower, and my dad was traditional in every sense of the word, Goodness knows how he contended with a child like me, but contend he did. This wee post of mine helped me make a little more sense of things when they felt senseless. Writing has always been my catharsis, and at times my nemesis.

A memoir on grief

Nobody can tell you how you are going to feel, not even me in my deep lived life enshrouded by grief.