Some days are dreaded. But I don't think today is one of them.
The early morning sun is shining, golden, on the spotted gums and national park that surrounds me. The winter wind is rustling the trees and chilling my nose, but it's not that cold. There are tears running down my cheeks, for our little friend, Harry, died during the night.
I knew this day would come, sooner than others. I thought it would be dreadful. I thought it would feel like the worst day in the world - which perhaps it does for Harry's brave family. Or maybe, for them, it feels peaceful with a tinge of gold, as Harry's spirit releases itself from his 8-year-old bodily torment, and, once again, learns how to fly.
There is a hole in my throat, and one in my heart, and they feel as though they are bleeding tears down the hill and into the shining waters of Pittwater. But it still feels like a quietly peaceful day, as if I can feel him, hear him whooshing, learning to fly.
My tears are confused tears. They are tears of relief that Harry's pain is over. They are tears of disbelief and compassion for what his family have endured. They are tears of hope that my friends may heal now, and grow and blossom, and remember that they are allowed to have needs too. And they are tears of despair at their struggle and torment.
Jo and Lyell inspire me to be more compassionate; more yielding; to be better. They have sacrificed much that we seem to take for granted - luxurious ways of spending the family income, planning for the future, a road trip, a holiday destination with no thought of stairs or ramps or access to medical facilities - and have sacrificed these things stoically. With the holding of Harry, holding him in his pain, they have truly parented. They have held him. They have held him. They still hold him.
Darling friends, may you know that we hold you in our hearts and look on in awe at how you have done it. The winter sun shines just for you today. It is all for you.
The early morning sun is shining, golden, on the spotted gums and national park that surrounds me. The winter wind is rustling the trees and chilling my nose, but it's not that cold. There are tears running down my cheeks, for our little friend, Harry, died during the night.
I knew this day would come, sooner than others. I thought it would be dreadful. I thought it would feel like the worst day in the world - which perhaps it does for Harry's brave family. Or maybe, for them, it feels peaceful with a tinge of gold, as Harry's spirit releases itself from his 8-year-old bodily torment, and, once again, learns how to fly.
There is a hole in my throat, and one in my heart, and they feel as though they are bleeding tears down the hill and into the shining waters of Pittwater. But it still feels like a quietly peaceful day, as if I can feel him, hear him whooshing, learning to fly.
My tears are confused tears. They are tears of relief that Harry's pain is over. They are tears of disbelief and compassion for what his family have endured. They are tears of hope that my friends may heal now, and grow and blossom, and remember that they are allowed to have needs too. And they are tears of despair at their struggle and torment.
Jo and Lyell inspire me to be more compassionate; more yielding; to be better. They have sacrificed much that we seem to take for granted - luxurious ways of spending the family income, planning for the future, a road trip, a holiday destination with no thought of stairs or ramps or access to medical facilities - and have sacrificed these things stoically. With the holding of Harry, holding him in his pain, they have truly parented. They have held him. They have held him. They still hold him.
Darling friends, may you know that we hold you in our hearts and look on in awe at how you have done it. The winter sun shines just for you today. It is all for you.
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