queenbee2 wrote:
> Dear groupmates,
> The 20th of this month would have been my daughter's 16th birthday.
> She was killed by a hit and run driver on October 10, 2006 when she
> was 14. She and her then 16 year old sister were walking home from
> their church youth group. It was the most horrible day of my life.
> Though it was 1 1/2 years ago I could recite every moment of that day
> as if it had just happened.
>
> Last year we marked her birthday by scattering her ashes in the desert
> amongst the wild flowers. We released balloons with notes and
> remembered stories about her. It was the right thing to do at the time
> and though painful felt good. This year feels different. Both my
> daughters looked forward to their 16th birthdays for many years. It is
> a truly special birthday and we will miss celebrating with her.
>
> I certainly do not feel like celebrating anything, in fact I would
> like to go to sleep and wake up 2 days later having missed the 20th
> all together. My older daughter plans to go to church and present a
> tribute at the youth service. Though she wants me to attend and I
> should go to sup****t her, I just can't do it. I know that I would sit
> and weep and be unable to hear anything that was said.
>
> How is it that time p***** and the pain does not seem to lessen?
> Though I suppose we function it takes a few notes of a certain song or
> the sight of a teenaged girl with long dark hair to begin the flood of
> tears. How in the world do I make it through another birthday? I know
> I will always be a grieving mother and my head tells me that some days
> will be more difficult. My heart doesn't understand and seems
> shattered into a million pieces.
> Debbie
Home is so sad. It stays as it was left,
Shaped to the comfort of the last to go
As if to win them back. Instead, bereft
Of anyone to please, it withers so,
Having no heart to put aside the theft
And turn again to what it started as,
A joyous shot at how things ought to be,
Long fallen wide. You can see how it was:
Look at the pictures and the cutlery.
The music in the piano stool. That vase.
--Philip Larkin
* * * * * * * * *
Cover her face; mine eyes dazzle: she died young.
--John Webster, _The Duchess of Malfi_
* * * * * * * * *
Rise up, slowly, Angel.
I cannot let you go.
Just drift softly 'midst the faces,
In sorrow now bent low.
Ease the searing anger,
Born in harsh, unyielding truth
That Death could steal my loved one
From the glowing blush of youth.
Rise up slowly, Angel.
Do not leave me here, alone,
Where the warmth of mortal essence
Lies replaced by cold, hard stone.
Speak to me in breezes
Whispered through the drying leaves,
And caress my brow with raindrops
Filtered by the sheltering trees.
Rise up slowly, Angel,
For I cannot hear the song
Which calls you through the shadows
Into the light beyond.
Wrap me in a downy cape
Of sun****ne, warm with love,
And kiss a tear-stained mother's face
With moonlight from above.
Then, wait for me at sunset,
Beside the lily pond,
And guide me safely homeward
To your world, which lies beyond.
Just spread your arms to take me
In reunion's sweet embrace,
And we shall soar, together,
To a different time and place.
--Diane Robertson
Take care,
Nicholas
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