Category Archives: On Grieving

Where Memory Lies (a poem)

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Where Memory Lies

My mother’s mind was clear until her very last breath. She held onto reality with a fierce grip, even when her body faltered. Though she often massaged the past to make it a more palatable story, her tales of her youth in India, the city of her birth she loved so much, and the parents she regretted leaving behind when she travelled to the other side of the world to begin her new life as a wife and mother, needed no embellishment. She never forgot her past.

My mother’s last breath escaped her body four years ago, and still, I marvel at how her mind remained sharp even when arthritis crippled her limbs.

This morning, I awoke with thoughts of memory, life, and remembering swirling in my mind. An image of a dear friend, whose mind is slowly fading though her body remains strong, drifted in and out as the muse wove her way through my thoughts. It is her struggle, and the pain of her family and all those who are struggling in similar circumstances, that inspired this poem.

Where Memory Lies
by Louise Gallagher

I smile and listen to your story
nod my head in all the right places.
It’s not the first time I’ve heard it
I know when to laugh and gasp
and act as if you’ve never told me this one before.

You ask where your husband is
and even though I know you will forget 
when I remind you he died years ago,
I tell you he’s gone fishing
and you clap your hands and giggle
in that little girl way you have
that made him smile and call you, “My girl!”
and you say, “He loves fishing!”
even though he never owned a reel.

To save myself from witnessing your grief
washing over you again and again
I do not tell the truth.
Truth hurts too much.

There is no happy ending in the grief 
of witnessing time’s relentless quest
to erase the past
from a mind that never forgot
birthdays, anniversaries, names and faces.

There is only this space where each day
becomes a new beginning
of a story unravelling
the tapestry of your life.

You tell me the story of how you met
the man you married
I listen and laugh
and when you forget his name
I quietly remind you
again and again
but do not tell you where he’s gone
and when you ask who I am,
I do not tell you, I am your daughter.

Truth hurts too much.

.

On Loss and Love

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The silky silence of night before the dawn envelops me as I sit on the deck listening to the rustling leaves of the riverbank trees. Frustrated by waking at 3am, I have come out here to savour the early morning stillness in the hopes that my mind will quieten and sleep return.

On my tiny portable speaker, which I’ve carried outside for company, the familiar melody of “Fields of Gold” wafts softly through the air, a song forever intertwined with the memory of my sister’s Ceremony of Life last December. Unexpectedly, tears well up in my eyes, tears I thought had long since dried. Sadness, a ghost I believed banished, returns with a vengeance.

Questions swirl in my mind, demanding answers: “How do you heal an emotion? How does letting it flow ease the pain when it is the very act of letting go that hurts so much?”

Perhaps the healing lies not in erasing the pain, but in embracing it. Maybe the tears are not a sign of weakness, but a testament to the depth of love that refuses to fade. And maybe, just maybe, the rustling leaves carry a whispered message from my sister, reminding me that even in absence, love endures, echoing in the fields of gold forever etched upon my heart.

On Loss and Love
by Louise Gallagher

Death
A darkening horizon
known, unwelcome, denied
the final, silent breath.

Grief
A ravenous beast
unbidden, fickle, relentless
gnawing at peace of mind

Sorrow
A river's endless flow
carving canyons in the void of loss
the search for solace's shore.

Acceptance
A tapestry woven of tears
each memory a shimmering thread
Love's enduring light.

A New Morning Ritual: Blessing the Departed

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I started something new this morning – a practice inspired by Lynda Watson, host of the “Inspire Me Forward” podcast and author of “The Book of Realizations.”

Lynda recently invited me to join her on the podcast (thank you, Lynda!), and she shared a few past episodes she thought I might enjoy. I love how genuine and present Lynda is in her interviews. In one episode, she hosted a panel discussion called, “On Death, Dying, and Grief,” which was both moving and inspiring.

Right at the start of the discussion, Lynda invited listeners to place a hand on their heart and simply bless those who are gone. That small act inspired my new morning ritual.

Blessing the Departed

Now, at the beginning of my morning meditation, as soon as I’ve lit my candle, I place my hand on my heart, gaze into the flame and send a blessing to my ancestors, loved ones, and all those who have departed from my world.

In blessing those who have gone before, we bless ourselves with love and remembrance.

This practice resonates deeply within me and with what I teach in my 8 week The ReWrite Journey online course: the importance of learning and trying new things. Embracing ‘the new’, reminding ourselves of our capacity to continually learn and grow, helps us break free from routine and the stultifying belief ‘we’ve done it all’, keeping us vibrant, energetic, and full of life.

“Blessing the Departed” is not something I’d ever considered before, but after doing it for just two days, I feel the soft, ethereal beauty of the blessing enveloping me with love.

An Invitation

I invite you to try this simple yet powerful ritual. It’s a lovely form of self-nourishment and a beautiful way to start the day, connecting with those who came before us and sending love into the world.

The Last Time – Letters to the Other Side #3

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As often happens, the muse found me just before sleep embraced me. Quietly, she murmured sweet words of encouragement inviting me to wake up and write it out.

I wasn’t all that willing a participant in her urgings. My turning on of the light and sitting up in bed was more reluctant than excitement at the prospect of writing out the glimmer of a thought she’d sprinkled in my mind.

I wanted to sleep.

I wrote anyway.

That’s the thing about the muse, and grief. You can’t just turn it off. You can only let it flow free.

The Last Time
by Louise Gallagher

The last time we chatted
I didn’t know there’d never be
another word connecting
my story to yours.

The last time you came for dinner
I didn’t know you’d never again arrive
with your habitual half hour earliness
arms laden with bags of food and gifts
you always brought for all the guests to enjoy.

The last time you sat at our table
I didn’t know we’d never share
another recipe
or I’d never again hear you giggle
and ask for just one more dram of Scotch.

I didn’t know.

And in my not knowing, I wonder
what would I change if I had known
that before the fall
that lead to your last breath
leaving
me here 
breathing
the magic of another sunrise
the wonder of another day
the beauty of another moment
passing into the next.

Would I have insisted you join me at the park
as we so often talked about
me helping you navigate 
the uneven pathway with your walker
just so you could witness 
nature’s beauty along the river?
 
Would I have insisted 
we take that trip to France
to fulfill on our mother’s dying wish?

Why didn’t I?

Death leaves no space or time for ‘why’.

There is only the finality of time stopping
for one,
as we
carry on 
with each moment
pulling us further and further away 
from that final breath,
that final touch,
that final word whispered
into the empty space left behind.

Missing you was easier
in the first days of your leaving.
I could pretend you were just away
on a trip
or shopping
or simply busy.

But now, months after death’s arrival
I can no longer avoid the certainty
of death 
and its irrevocable invitation
I accept
no matter how heavy my heart
the last time I saw you
was the last.

Grief is Messy

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Four years ago today, my mother drew her last breath, stilled her heart and surrendered to the ever-after.

It has been four years of healing, growth, transforming pain into wisdom, opening to the spiritual nature of life and death and moving deeper into being embodied in this one life I am living now.

I wrote the poem below a year after mom’s death, still in thick of Covid’s thrall, and still aligning to this expected yet, still surprising role as, as a motherless child

At the time, I shared it on my Facebook page and this morning FB Memories brought it forward. I am grateful. In the wake of my sister’s death last November 24, it is a comforting and welcome reminder of grief’s erratic and capricious nature If you are walking within grief’s aura, I hope it brings you comfort too.

Grief is Messy.
by Louise Gallagher

Grief is messy.
It follows no well-known path
travelling to the beat
of its own drum
as it pummels your defences
pushing its way through the boundaries
you desperately put in place
to keep its presence at bay.

Grief is stealthy
It dresses up in familiar clothing
masquerading as your best friend
while it sneaks in through the side door
of memory, stealing into
the broken places
of your heart
you want desperately to avoid touching.

There is no taming grief.
There is only its heavy cloak
of companionship
wearing you down
until one day
you find yourself arriving at that place
where moments spent wrapped
in grief’s company
die away
as softly as the sweet melody
of the voice
of the one who is gone
fading into memory.

And for life on ther lighter side, I’ve posted one of Beau’s blogs on Sundays with Beaumont this morning. As always, he wins! 🙂

All’s Quiet on a Midday Flight: A journey through Memory and Legacy

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I’ve always found a unique serenity in choosing midday flights. Unlike the bustling mornings or the weary evenings, airports during these hours whisper tales of transient calm. This time, the terminal, usually a stage for the hurried footsteps of countless travelers, offered a rare pause in its daily rhythm. Such moments of tranquility amidst the chaos of departures and arrivals are fleeting, yet profoundly appreciated.

However, adhering to the conventional wisdom of arriving two hours early for a domestic flight often seems excessive. Today, just ten minutes sufficed to navigate through check-in and security, even with a suitcase that needed checking-in. The efficiency was a welcome surprise, especially considering my departure from the newly renovated B gates. This change significantly shortened my walk, a small yet significant mercy for someone who, out of convenience or necessity, checks their luggage.

The renovation, aside from logistical benefits, hinted at a broader theme of travel: the blend of wonder and ordeal. For many, including myself, the journey to the gate is the least appealing part of travel. Yet, it’s an integral step in the dance of departure and arrival, a necessary prelude to the adventures that await.

On this occasion, my luggage carried more than just essentials. It bore fragments of my sister Jackie’s life—items destined for my daughter, granddaughter, and sister Anne. In sifting through Jackie’s belongings, we distributed much to charity, but some pieces were too imbued with memories, too rich in sentimental value, to part with. They represented not just personal history, but a tangible connection to Jackie, a way to keep her spirit alive in our daily lives.

I sit and watch passengers walk past the cafe bar where I type and wonder about my own possessions: the artifacts of travels and life events that compose the mosaic of my existence. From the shawl I picked up in Ireland to the earrings from Barbados, each item carries a story, a piece of a place, or a moment shared with loved ones. These are not mere objects but the threads from which the tapestry of my life is woven, each adding colour, texture, and depth to my personal narrative.

I ponder the future of these threads, the fate of these tangible memories when I am no longer here to hold them. Will they serve as cherished reminders for my loved ones, or will they become burdensome relics of a past no longer connected to the present?

In my carry-on, two bags of jewellery—one for Anne and one for my daughter in Vancouver—serve as a testament to these reflections. They are heavy, laden not just with their physical weight but with the emotional gravity of the memories they represent.

As I navigate through the quietude of the airport, I am reminded that our journeys, both literal and metaphorical, are interwoven with the lives of those we touch. What we carry, what we leave behind, and the memories we cherish are part of a larger narrative. It’s a narrative that transcends the individual, connecting us through the shared experience of love, loss, and the enduring question of legacy.

Who will treasure the memory of us? It’s a poignant question that echoes in the silent corridors of my midday flight, a reminder of the indelible marks we leave on the hearts and lives of those we love.

Love Letter to the Other Side (2) – Rivers of Grief: Reflections on Writing and Loss

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I hadn’t planned to weave words about love, loss, and the tender embrace of memory this morning. Or so I thought.

Yet, as I settle at my desk, a warm coffee cup in hand, its steam mingling with the cool morning air the furnace has not yet warmed, something shifts. Outside, the once-sluggish river, liberated from the icy clutches of the Polar Vortex, now courses swiftly. It dances between lingering islands of ice, eagerly racing towards a distant, unseen sea.

In that moment, I surrender to the muse’s gentle call.

And for that, I am eternally grateful.

Grief, I’ve found, mirrors the river’s journey. At times, it surges with relentless force, seeking an outlet for its profound depth of feeling. Then, unexpectedly, it halts – frozen in a moment where memories cling tightly to the sharp edges of loss.

Yet, it’s often the simplest of triggers – a familiar melody, a fleeting scent, the echo of a smile – that loosens its grasp.

Released, grief moves once more, flowing with renewed ease, leaving in its wake not just a void, but an abiding presence of Love.

Beneath The Mountain Ash
by Louise Gallagher

The space you held
remains, not empty,
filled with echoes of memory
once alive with your soft laughter,
rippling through time
like the rhythmic tick-tock
of the cuckoo clock you loved
on the wall beside the kitchen sink 
merrily chiming away the passing hours.

I see you there,
at the kitchen sink
hands veiled in soapy water,
gazing out to where the Mountain Ash
stands, bare
shrouded in snow,
its roots frozen,
awaiting the tender thaw
of spring’s warm breath.

I see you 
still, standing silent
beneath its naked branches.

I close my eyes
and breathe the air
scented with lingering tendrils
of the perfume you wore,
it clings to the soft blue shawl
I've wrapped around my shoulders.

It was yours, in the  before time.
I hold it close 
and wrap it around my shoulders,
tightly.

I breathe. In. Out.

Silently, you fade
into memory’s warm embrace.

Grief Flows With Gratitude

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Vancouver, spring 2023. The Gallagher Girls – The last time we were all together

Grief, ever-present lingered heavily in our midst this weekend. This morning, grey skies hang low, creating a world where air hangs heavy and still in sympathy with the river whose flow is stifled by ice covering its surface. The quality of the air we breathe holds ‘Moderate Risk’ the weather report states. Burdened with humanity’s careless offerings it clings close to the earth, reluctant to disperse.

In this world, we are like specters of loss, breathing shallowly as though each inhalation risks sweeping away the delicate memories of those departed. It’s as if letting go of these recollections would affirm the unbearable truth of their absence.

Frozen in grief’s clutches, our blood struggles to circulate, our hearts labour to beat under the weight of memories clutched too tightly.

This weekend past, my daughter and I, alongside one of my brother-in-law’s daughters, embarked on the poignant and heart-wrenching task of sifting through my sister Jackie’s belongings. Her wardrobe—a tapestry of her life—dresses, scarves, jewelry, all infused with her essence. Treasured keepsakes nestled in a jeweled box, a gift from our parents in her teens: cards, handwritten notes, photos, ticket stubs, even her Air Canada ‘wings’, and our brother’s high school ring. Among these, a pair of tiny gold scissors and a spool of thread.

Jackie, a seamstress whose passion for sewing wove joy into our lives, created snowsuits, Easter dresses, Halloween costumes, and doll clothes for my daughters. Her craft was meticulous, her stitches a testament to her precision.

But time and arthritis cruelly claimed the dexterity of her fingers. Her love for sewing gradually receded into memory, leaving behind fabrics, ribbons, and threads, which she generously donated to charity.

In her craft room, her sewing machine and serger stood silent, shrouded in protective covers, awaiting a new home.

We found solace in redistributing her clothes. The Pashmina one of our cousin’s from India gave her, now part of my wardrobe, feels like an embrace from Jackie. The bracelet my middle sister, Anne, and I gave her for her 75th birthday is on my wrist. Other pieces are packed away for me to take to Anne when I fly to Vancouver next month. Some, my daughters kept to remember her by and others we shared with friends who wanted tokens of remembrance.

Yet, the abundance of her possessions led us, my youngest daughter and I, to fill our SUVs and donate to an agency aiding women entering the workforce. “Jackie would be pleased,” my brother-in-law remarked. Indeed, she always extended a helping hand to those in need.

Her personal items have left the home, but the ache of their absence lingers. Waves of grief wash over me, each tide a reminder of what we’ve lost in Jackie’s passing. Each breath full of the pain of letting go.

I find myself hoping, irrationally, that shallow breaths might lessen the sharpness of loss. Yet, deep down, I know life and death don’t bend to such wishes. I sometimes fantasize it’s all a dream, only to be jolted back by the vivid memory of her final breath, my hand resting on her forehead, the chill of the November air as I left the hospital, the flight to Vancouver where I gazed through the plane’s window, seeking her essence in the clouds.

In these moments of remembrance, grief slips away as I soak in the gratitude of having had a sister such as Jackie. And as I breathe into the stillness of my memories, I wonder… was that Jackie’s voice reminding me to breathe?

Miracle. All of it.

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As sleep gently recedes and my mind begins to stir, I awaken. With a habitual roll, I reach for my phone on the bedside table, diving into my morning ritual: a half-hour of puzzle-solving courtesy of the New York Times. This quiet challenge is my gentle bridge between the realms of dreams and waking.

Finally leaving the warmth of my bed, I bundle up and step outside with Beaumont, my beloved Sheepadoodle. Our morning saunters have become a sacred time. Under the golden-hued sky, where morning’s first light dances, I stand enveloped in the chilly air. My breath forms delicate mists, merging seamlessly into the serene silence. Breathing deep, I hear my soul whisper, “Miracle. All of it.”

“Yes. It is,” I reply softly, my breath mingling with the winter’s chill.

Returning home, Beau paddles back to the bedroom, seeking the warmth of the bed and my still sleeping husband’s company. Meanwhile, I head to the kitchen, ready to bake breakfast scones. Today holds a different rhythm – I’m going to my brother-in-law’s to sort through my sister’s belongings. I’ve coordinated with a couple of not-for-profits for distribution. Today is about packing and remembering.

As I search for the scone recipe on my phone, I stumble upon a folder labeled “Jackie’s room.” I catch my breath at the poignant reminder. It’s a list of the hospital rooms she stayed in during her final months, a journey that started with a broken femur and wrist last July 24th. There are six entries.

Tears well up against my eyelids. I close my eyes and silently acknowledge this moment of grief, familiar yet always fresh. I allow myself to feel, to let the tears trace their path of memory as they slide down my cheeks.

I turn the oven on and turn into the familiar process of baking scones. The furnace hums a steady beat, I stand at the kitchen island and look out onto the wintery landscape beyond our windows and watch the light creep across the sky. It spills over the snow-clad trees and riverbank. Ice stretches out from the shoreline to the open water where giant, slow-moving chunks of ice drift gracefully along the river’s surface.

I breathe into the profound beauty and tranquility of my morning view.

The oven beeps. The scones are ready to be baked as the day awakens to its own rhythm.

And my soul whispers. “Miracle. All of it.”

The Three Sisters

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The 3 Sisters Germany – Circa 1970s

As laughter and warmth filled our dining room on the evening of December 30th, it felt as if Christmas had come again just for us.

Minus the gift exchange and the date, it truly had. My brother-in-law, Jim, had spent the actual holiday visiting one of his daughters in another city, and we had faced our first Christmas since Jackie’s passing without either of them. Deciding on a Re-do with Jim was an important step in our healing, a loving gesture to bridge the gap death had left in our family circle.

The night of our Re-do, 13 people gathered around our dining room table. We cheered, toasted, and shared stories about life, travels, and the people who make it all worthwhile. With Jim present, Jackie’s absence was even more profoundly noticeable than at our dinner on Christmas night.

During the evening, a regular guest at our family and friends dinners revealed that he often rearranged the name tags I’d placed around the table to ensure he would be sitting next to Jackie. This simple yet touching act was a beautiful testament to Jackie’s quiet and caring influence.

Jackie was often the one I placed next to guests who were new to the circle. She had a natural talent for making newcomers feel at home. She could draw anyone into laughter and conversation, making them feel as though they’d been part of our group for years. This was just one of her many gifts.

Naramatta – April 2015

As a sister, Jackie was a rock for both Anne, my middle sister, and me. Dependable, loyal, and an exceptional listener, she could be forthright in her opinions, yet her feedback was always delivered with love.

Jackie’s aversion to making waves probably explained why she got along with everyone – truly, everyone.

I was once likened to a Jack Russell Terrier for my tenacity, but Jackie was the St. Bernard of our family. She was the rescuer, offering just the right mix of comfort and support. At the reception after her memorial, many shared stories of her kindness, like greeting new neighbors or bringing food to those in need. My husband, C.C., was often a beneficiary of her thoughtfulness, especially when I was away.

Anne, our middle sister, is akin to a Cockapoo – friendly, loyal, and a lover of people and animals. Always ready for an adventure but equally content with quiet moments, Anne embodies a fierce loyalty. But once trust is broken, it’s a challenge to rebuild, yet, even when I did something to get us both in trouble when we were younger, Anne would always defend me, often taking the blame for my missteps to protect me from the ire of our parents.

Gabriola Island – 2018

Throughout the years, the loyalty and tenacity of our ‘alter-ego-dogs’ played a role in keeping our bond together. We loved one another fiercely, even in those moments where we were driving one another crazy. It is our sister-triangle that has been a cornerstone of my life throughout the years. And though Jackie was the eldest, once we aged-out of the big sister-little sister dynamics and what I called her bossy-stage, she always treated me as an equal.

Our bond involved the usual sisterly phone calls, sometimes triangulating our relationships as one or the other of us vented about something the other had done.  Yet, we always returned to the one thing that sustained us — a deeply lived commitment within each of us to keeping our sister-connection alive, no matter the miles or age that separated us.

It’s just Anne and me now. A dynamic duo rather than triangle. Still, Jackie’s essence permeates our interactions, providing a touchstone to keep our sisterly bond alive. While new stories of Jackie’s antics won’t be created, her memory continues to weave through our lives, reassuring us that she watches over us, like a guardian St. Bernard.

We held a Christmas dinner Re-do last Thursday. Neither Jackie nor Anne were at the table, but both were unmistakably present in my heart. it’s where they always are. A sisterly-bond that can never broken.

I am grateful.

I am blessed.