As some of you know, three weeks ago, on October 5, my niece Simone died at the age of 18.  She had been diagnosed less than three weeks before that with cancer.  Cancer took her swiftly – too swiftly for us to grasp, really.  That will perhaps take most of the rest of our lives.

Writing can’t help but be part of my journey about this tragedy – just as my daughter’s journey after losing her sister-cousin involves lots and lots of drawing and painting.  It has felt unclear to me how to proceed with that writing though.  The topic of death and its aftermath is not the usual stuff of this blog, and I don’t care to shift my focus here quite so thoroughly.  I have never wanted a reader – accustomed to my shorter form and (usually) light touch – to feel hijacked by a blog post.  At the same time, it feels wrong somehow to proceed with only those topics I deem consistent with the blog’s previous life without acknowledging somewhere that I stand on new ground.

Simone’s death is now part of everything I might do, so in that regard, it will be present in anything I write for this blog.  Likely you will glimpse her – if only sometimes between the lines.  How could it be otherwise?

  1. Tina said:

    Katrina, good to hear your voice here again. Why would we not talk about what is really important? Life is too short for what is not. Love, Tina

  2. I enjoy, too, being in Reality with you.

    Katrina, this is such a beautiful elegy of the imprint Simone left on yours, and your family’s, heart.
    I read your Blog because I enjoy hearing how you respond to what in this precious life captivates you, filtered through
    your sensibilities. Write on!

  3. Polly Pitsker said:

    We are all touched by an unexpected death at some time in our lives. It helps to share our feelings. Your blog is a good place to do that. You don’t have to try to protect us.

  4. pits47 said:

    I’ve always felt that “moving on” was the wrong way to think about coping with death. Carrying it within us seems more real. Loss changes us, for better or for worse. Sending love to you, my friend.

    • Polly, I agree that moving on feels somehow inaccurate – and not really desirable either. There is an artist my mom introduced me to who turns ashes and clay into a small piece of art with a hole in it. She means to represent the hole that a loss creates, which she thinks of as the sacred space created by that loss. I like that very much. Love to you, too – and, always, gratitude.

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