I walked around her garden earlier. All the flowers were in full bloom, like they hadn’t got the memo. Petals open wide, bright and defiant, like they were still waiting for someone to sit among them and admire the view. But the chairs were empty.
No laughter. No tea in mismatched mugs. No stories being told over the sound of wind chimes or the soft hum of summer air. Just space. Just silence. Just everything she built… still here. Still blooming. Still breathing. Without her.
The world doesn’t stop for grief. That’s the most jarring part. Cars still pass. Planes still crawl across the sky. The birds still sing like they’re trying to cheer you up but don’t quite know what to say. Everything moves, while your own life sits very, very still.
It’s strange how grief works. For a moment, you feel like maybe you’re okay. Like maybe you’ve stepped out from under it. And then it comes back, heavy as a blanket soaked in water, pressing on your chest, making it hard to breathe.
I’m not ready to write this properly. Not yet. But I want to remember what this part feels like — the bit where she’s still here, just barely. Where we sit at her side and stroke her arm. Where her eyes are closed but we talk to her anyway. Where we are present, because soon we won’t be able to be. And presence feels like the only thing left that matters.
So I’m not writing this for closure, or answers, or any kind of peace. I’m writing it because today was heavy, and beautiful, and quiet, and loud, and everything in between. And because sometimes, the only way to hold onto a moment… is to write it down.
Thirty Something Plus VAT 
Oh Lottie,
This took my breath away. The image of those flowers blooming defiantly, still waiting for someone who might not come back to admire them – there’s something so achingly beautiful about that.
You’ve captured something so true about grief that people don’t often talk about: how the world just carries on being relentlessly normal whilst your universe has tilted completely off its axis. Those planes crawling across the sky, the birds trying to cheer you up but not knowing what to say – it’s almost offensive, isn’t it? How dare everything keep moving when something so monumental is happening.
I’m struck by your honesty about not being ready to write this “properly” yet. But what you’ve written here feels perfectly proper to me – raw and real and exactly what this moment deserves. Sometimes the most important writing happens when we’re not trying to make it neat or finished or meaningful. Sometimes it’s just about bearing witness.
The way you describe presence as “the only thing left that matters” – that feels so important. In a world that’s always rushing towards the next thing, you’re choosing to be fully here in this impossible, beautiful, terrible space between moments.
Thank you for writing it down anyway, even when it’s hard. Even when you’re not ready. These words matter, and they’re holding something precious – not just for you, but for anyone who reads them and recognises their own heavy, beautiful, quiet, loud moments.
Sending you so much love during this time.
Bob
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Thank you, Bob. It means a lot to hear this, especially right now. I’m still figuring out how to put it all into words, but knowing it resonates makes it easier to keep trying. Thanks again 🙂
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