And so, here we are again. You’d think, nearly two decades later, we’d know how to do this. This day. November 13. Outside my bedroom window the inner-city Sydney traffic huffs and sighs, rumbling toward afternoon’s end, and evening’s slow descent. Downstairs, our angel-friend Rocel clatters in the kitchen, helping us juggle this crazy end of
December 31, 2016 It was an impossibly hot day. The sky a blaze of blue. New Years Eve sizzled off ashphalt and skin long before any fireworks sparked. We’d spent the morning —Dr M and I and the three kids—wandering Mudgee, the country town we were holidaying in, lunching in a lovely cafe that afforded a natural green
* feature image by Rob Viuya No more normal In the days following my brother’s death, there was nothing to do, and everything to do. Our normal lives had been put on hold while we negotiated that strange, liminal zone between the vaporous shock of the news, and the more solid event of the funeral.
Whenever I hear statistics of casualties in the plural —and there is no lack of them lately (or ever) in media coverage—I can’t help but think in the singular. Tonight, yesterday, tomorrow, some family finds out that the floor has just dropped out of their domestic world. It’s easy to distance tragedy as other, as ‘in the headlines,’
Today we are doing something a little different in this space. My dear friend Sue Crowley is visiting us to share her thoughts on what she rightly calls “the deeply complicated day” that is Mother’s Day. Sue is a surgical children’s nurse with a heart that pulses with compassion and creativity. Through sharing some memories of her