Thirteen weeks and two days

It’s now thirteen weeks and two days since Frog died. If anything, I feel worse than I did three months ago. I’m worn down by sleepless nights and my rapidly falling weight. I can’t believe that my body keeps going.

I try to hold on to my beliefs. I do my breathing exercises and make positive affirmations. I pray and go for long walks and sit in my secret wood with Ellie for hours, bathed in the healing power of nature. Neighbours, friends and family rally round. But the grief doesn’t go away. It frightens me.

Meanwhile, spring advances in fits and starts.

Ellie keeping me company in my secret wood. The carpet of bluebell leaves hints at the glory to come

Greater Stitchwort masses along the footpath

Pussy Willow is bursting into bloom. Already the flowers smell unbelievably sweet and soon the tree will be buzzing with bees.

Golden Saxifrage clusters on the banks of streams

The first Cuckoo Flower (Lady’s Smock) yesterday in the damp meadow behind the house. An insect has found it too.

Why do I have to be so desperately unhappy? Why can’t I simply be grateful for the near half-century that Frog and I spent together? Why can’t I simply remember that time with joy? Why can’t I simply rejoice in my new-found closeness to my brothers and sisters and the kindness that greets me at every turn? Why can’t I hold on to my belief that Frog and I will meet again?

Why does the grief outweigh everything?

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