Late January, my mother died.

This is one of the photographs I shared with her that month: “lovely,” she said, and mentioned that I’d sent photographs of this street before, and that’s true, because I have appreciated observing the way that strip of birch trees changes with the seasons. Small changes. Big changes.

Grief is ultimately a solitary experience in this culture, yet as one friend said, we can find solace. I’m fortunate that my partner met my mother when he was in his early teens, so he has his own set of memories with and about her, which has been a great comfort. And my other high-school best friend met her a couple years later, visited weekly when her daughter was young, and she had enjoyed a visit with her last year after lockdowns lifted.

As an only child, raised by a single mother, I wonder whether grieving wouldn’t be easier in company, but I’m so fortunate to have kind and understanding friends–and colleagues–who have offered so many different kinds of love and support…so vital to me that I’m sure that not’s expressing it adequately. And, after all, just because two people share a loss does not mean that they have anything else in common, or even feel that loss similarly, so I think this is the best kind of company.

I’m so grateful for every single person who is reading this, who has already reached out with warmth and love, whether because I seemed to have disappeared or because one friend shared the news with another and news travelled.

And I’m also grateful for every kind thought expressed below. Especially knowing that it could be a long time, before I can bring myself to reply. The pace of digital life seems overwhelming and I am offline almost completely. (If you are an editor reading this, don’t worry if that seems to negate terms previously discussed–I will honour our agreements.)

My reading has been erratic and I flag different passages now, whilst my thoughts are preoccupied. This passage from a mother to her daughter comes from Debra Adelaide’s Orange-Prize nominated novel, Household Guide to Dying (which, ironically, I had requested from another library early in January, so it landed on the hold shelf for me while we were away);

“‘You know,’ she murmured into my shoulder, ‘you know, more than anyone what it’s going to be like for me. You’re my only child.'”

Some days I binge-read and sometimes I go for days unable to even touch a book. Some days I read about grief and sometimes I reread just my favourite parts of the happiest stories I can find.

Over the years, I’ve read about how so many of you have coped with losses, how one’s appetite for story can be both resistant and insatiable when one is grieving. I have seen how grief compelled some of you to write more posts and some of you to write fewer. Some of you have shared the news immediately and others have kept grief close and quiet. And all of this is a helpful reminder that each of us finds an individual path through loss.

If anyone wants to share literary suggestions, or to comment on something that worked or did not work in troubled times, I might try to gather them into a post at some point, but no promises: I might simply post photographs or quotations for some time.

Thanks for reading this and I hope you and yours are keeping well and safe, finding solace in and out of stories.