continuation of grief diary

Written by Alanna M McIntyre, 64 year old retiree living in Brighton.

Written on the 12th August 2010

I clear the lower bird bath in the garden where the slime has increased over time as it is overhung with plants and the occasional snail falls into the water. I manage to remove some of the sludge and fill it with water again. I think of your decomposed body. Yes, it’s too awful of think about. Perhaps that’s why I do not want photos of us around or look of photos of you.

Your Mother has photos of you and your deceased sister on the piano. You called it her shrine. She puts a small vase of flowers on the piano too. You did not care for that.

I see you as a texture and a colour not a shape or a form. You are someone who is transformed. You wanted your body used for research but it was too late for that. Money from your estate will help them in their medical research.

The moment you died your body was no more it was like a discarded cocoon. I now cocoon my love, our love, in the written word, in capturing beauty in photos. I make worthless or seemingly valueless stuff and make it into something different and beautiful.

The writing group that I have taken over is compiling an anthology to raise money for the local centre for learning. My daughter gave me an old calendar covered with colourful sweets. I took two pages and made a paper necklace for the person who offered to edit the anthology. She is a fine art student and wears chunky jewellery. Getting people to contribute to the anthology has taken all my time and energy.

The forget-me-nots are now re-bunching into little posies of green leaves and may like the cowslips re-flower again this year.

I could not magic away your depression, or your illness, but I can make the hole you left into a place of beauty and creativity by nurturing me. I made my grand-daughter a magic wand from a paintbrush that had become useless as the tip was broken and card and layers of paper in a star shape. I painted it in a crimson vermillion and the next day she covered it with magic sprinkles from Granny’s sequin jar.

She went out into the garden pointing it to all the plants, saying, “Magic,” It is indeed magical as the garden subtlety changes. It is my everyday focus and growing area and frames a picture for me.

In winter I will be able to concentrate on the driftwood fence creation and intertwine new threads of colour into its life.

I look to the cover of my notebook made from post consumer waste paper so my driftwood sculpture is made up from washed up treasure from the beach.

I read one of my extracts of my diary to the Nightwriters last night and people were moved. One person commented. “It’s like an undercoat, lush, and a foundation.”

I think of the cottages in Eire where a coat of distemper, whitewash to you, have freshened the discoloured walls. Perhaps the picture is too idyllic. The one I have in mind is of you sitting by a lake quiet and thoughtful with a reflection of you in the still water.

The woman whose b and b we stayed in lived in her garage for the summer season. She had an enormous crucifix with a flashing red neon light and gave us scones jam and cream when we arrived with a cup of tea.

Alanna McIntyre