Tag: death, grief, love

C.J. Flood

You can’t tell that the coffin holds the body of a boy.He wasn’t even sixteen but his coffin’s the same size as a man’s would be.It’s not just that he was young, but because it was so sudden. No one should die the way he did; that’s what the faces here say.I think about him, in there, with all that space, and I want to stop them. I want to open the box and climb in with him. To wrap him up in a duvet. I can’t bear the thought of him being cold.And all the time the same question flails around my head, like a hawkmoth round a light-bulb: Is it possible to keep loving somebody when they kill someone you love?

Natalie Lloyd

I woke up to an ache in my chest, the smell of chocolate, and the sound of the ghost making a racket in the kitchen. Now, I’m not the sort to dwell on doom and sorrow. Life is too short for that. But I should at least try to describe the ache briefly: It is not the kind that comes from eating tacos too late at night. It’s the kind that comes from being left behind. I think my heart is smart enough to know there’s a place I should be filling with new memories, new jokes, and wondrous adventures with the one person I loved most of all. But that person is gone now. And so, my heart has a giant hole. I call it The Big Empty.

C.J. Flood

You can’t tell that the coffin holds the body of a boy.He wasn’t even sixteen but his coffin’s the same size as a man’s would be.It’s not just that he was young, but because it was so sudden. No one should die the way he did; that’s what the faces here say.I think about him, in there, with all that space, and I want to stop them. I want to open the box and climb in with him. To wrap him up in a duvet. I can’t bear the thought of him being cold.And all the time the same question flails around my head, like a hawkmoth round a light-bulb: Is it possible to keep loving somebody when they kill someone you love?

Natalie Lloyd

I woke up to an ache in my chest, the smell of chocolate, and the sound of the ghost making a racket in the kitchen. Now, I’m not the sort to dwell on doom and sorrow. Life is too short for that. But I should at least try to describe the ache briefly: It is not the kind that comes from eating tacos too late at night. It’s the kind that comes from being left behind. I think my heart is smart enough to know there’s a place I should be filling with new memories, new jokes, and wondrous adventures with the one person I loved most of all. But that person is gone now. And so, my heart has a giant hole. I call it The Big Empty.