child loss

Am I eleven and a half?

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( From ‘Wonder Walkers‘ by Micha Archer)

A father, on his daughter’s third death anniversary declared, “I am three today. I started my new life, three years ago. Now, I am a toddler. In a new world, I am learning its new language. Often, I make things up. Right now, I can only ride a bike with three wheels. I know only a few numbers. Some are etched on my memory. I can socialize but before long, must return to familiar spaces. There is so much I don’t know yet, and I am learning to be okay with all my unanswered, perhaps unanswerable questions.”

You cannot enter any world for which you do not have a language. I have been yearning for a better kind of language for as long as I can remember. I am creating my own in a new way. I simply make up words and sentences that I want to say and hear. They may sound silly to the world, but I am finding the balance between courage and fear, between confusion and clarity.

The violence within, frightens me. Sometimes I am very alone with it, and I wonder who I am. Who else can I be? This fear is a kind of intelligence I know but where does it live in me? What am I afraid of? How can I put a language to it? How can I create a friendship with it? And with the confusion, the unknown?

Saagar’s death will not become the primary definition of me, I say.

Does this happening seek my permission or has it already claimed its place?

Am I already eleven and a half?

Like cloud joining cloud.

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Loss Too Deep for Words

When all that seems real is lost,
where words blur and fail,
where intention cannot reach the depth,
where heart hungers
and soul starves.

Only the warmth in the heart of another
finds the pulse,
like cloud joining cloud,
a delicate meeting
before language.

Seeing and seen,
no grandeur, no pretence.

Not words.
Not healing.
Not intention.

Not reviving.
Not demanding.
Not offering.
Not outside, just there, stepped inside.
Rare.

Once isolated, unreachable,
now golden sun emerging, real.

Only that which is real
can touch that which is real.

Nothing survives
that is not love.

  • By Tony Bisson

(Tony is a bereaved father. He wrote this poem expressing what being in the Circle of Rememberance means to him.)

Love endures.

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As you walk through the intense fire that follows the death of your child, your heart burns for those walking behind you. You turn around and look at their tear-drenched faces – parents whose child just died . Despite the unbearable heat of your own loss, you can’t help but reach out to them. Their predicament as unbearable to you as your own. In trying to ease their pain, you believe you diminish your own.

This poem is offered by one of the CORe members for those carrying the heavy load of love and loss. It deeply respects the brokenness while also tracing the quiet light that remains, reminding us that even in grief’s shadow, love whispers through.

I feel your grieving, heart laid bare,
pieces scattered, our lot unfair.
Yet each fragment, though fragile, shines,
resilience stitched by love’s designs.

Your angel child, though gone from sight,
does dwell in memory, a quiet light.
In laughter caught, in whispers faint,
in all the love your heart can paint.

Each tear a bridge, each sigh a thread,
connecting worlds where you are led.
The joins of grief, so tender, true,
are etched with courage in all you do.

Though nights are long and shadows deep,
their presence lingers—it does not sleep.
In dreams, in stars, in softest air,
your dearest whispers: “I am there.”

Your love endures beyond the pain,
a sacred flame that shall remain.
Though broken, your heart bears a light,
turning grief’s darkness into sight.

So let each memory softly bloom,
a garden bright within the gloom.
Even in sorrow, love will find
its way to warm the grieving mind.

Now fragments found, arranged anew,

Love, hope, and courage form the glue.

Your heart, though changed, beats strong and true,

A living flame that carries you.

Whispered Reflection:

Each fracture, each delicate seam, carries a quiet, hidden light. Through love, courage, and the passing of time, these pieces are held together, forming a heart that is not the same as before—but more radiant for all it has endured. The very places of repair shine with their own gentle beauty, a reminder that even in loss, love endures and is able to recreate beauty.

Two overlapping worlds.

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The Bhagavad Geeta addresses the ethical and moral dilemmas around the questions of who we are, how we should live our lives and act in this world. If this voluminous text was to be summarised in two sentences, they would be:

  1. Do what needs to be done, knowing that all actions come from God.
  2. Do not be attached to the results of your actions.

Six weeks ago, I re-entered the world of Suicide Prevention due to a presentation I agreed to make. It took me back to a familiar battleground where strong currents of injustice flowed through me. I went over our story yet again, in mind and body. It burnt me up. It made me restless and irritable. It kept me staring at the ceiling at night. It brought back the shit of guilt in big droppings. It was silly of me to agree to do it, but it was too late already. I wrote it down, prepared a set of PowerPoint slides to support the story.  I repeated it for the nth time to many. I wondered, to what end, but I did it anyway.

Four and a half years ago, when my road gradually swerved from the Suicide Prevention world towards peer support with other parents, it was like a cool breeze gently blowing in my face. That conversation felt like a proper invitation. Instinctively I knew it was good for me. Despite huge self-doubt, I trusted that path. I went with it. This work was also about preventing isolation and possibly suicide amongst parents, as our risk is 60-70% higher than others. It did not feel like work at all. We formed strong bonds of friendship. We shared deeply and held each other in understanding and compassion. This felt like home.  

The organisers at National Confidential Inquiry into Suicide and Safety in Mental Health provided me the best possible support to be able to present my thoughts. The comments on the chat were that of gratitude and inspiration to change. One person said that it was better than any training course they had attended. I am glad that I did what was needed. The strength to do it came from somewhere. Now, it can do its work and I can go back home.

The recording is here (‘Bridging the gaps’ starts 6 minutes and 45 seconds in).

Dad, boys and crow.

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“Once upon a time there were two boys who purposefully misremembered things about their father. It made them feel better if they ever forgot things about their mother.

There were a lot of equations and transactions in their small family. One boy dreamed he had murdered his mother. He checked it wasn’t true, then a put a valuable silver serving spoon that his father had inherited in the bin. It was missed. He felt better.

One boy lost the treasured lunchbox note from his mother saying ‘good luck’. He cried alone in his room, then threw a toy car at his father’s framed Coltrane poster. It smashed. He felt better. The father dutifully swept up all the glass and understood.

There were a lot of punishments and anticipations in their small family.“

Eight years ago it was hard work and I could remember it only vaguely.

I read it for the second time this morning. It felt brand new, easy, fun and hearbreaking. Part memoir, part sound-poem. A bit more than 100 pages long. No more than 18 thousand words. The ‘missing’ in the life of a young family after the mother dies suddenly is palpable. In the background rings the sound of a crow flapping its wings. One big black feather has dropped on the ground. It lies near my right foot.  

PS: Losing a parent or a close relative or friend at a young age puts the young at a high risk of suicide.