I.

It is the first time we speak
and I am reminded of how strange
this whole exchange is.

She’s never spoken
to a counsellor before
but does want to
‘get a few things off my chest’...
She says distraction works –
watching TV and reading
autobiographies –
well, it works some of the time
at least.

She’s been keeping to herself
isolating in her cell,
doesn’t dare trouble anyone
with the sadness and the worry.

Sleep isn’t easy
so she’s on ‘night meds’
which are labelled with big words
that can’t be recalled.

When I ask if there is someone
now or before that she trusted
and could confide in,
it is an older sibling.
But they are on the ‘outside’
And she doesn’t have their number now.
They’ll talk when she’s out.

We dance around the subject
of death and grief.
Her voice begins to crack
and the loss is palpable
filling and weighing down
sound bites in the phoneline.
She might very well hang up.

There is a birth-day coming up
and I’m thinking about
how we are in the first days of winter.

She doesn’t know how long
this grief will take.
How long does grief take
and when does it start giving?

I step carefully into the land
of remembering with her.
We try to stay with the good memories
that are no doubt bitter sweet.

Without much effort
she drops back to her younger self
and recalls,
‘When I was a kid
we used to go on walks
and he’d put me on his shoulders...
other times I’d fall asleep
and he’d carry me to bed.’

She’s thinking about her own kids a lot
and working on a colourful painting
of sea creatures.

The background is black
and the figures – blue, orange and pink.
When she paints she feels connected
with her children,
even if they are not in her care.

I say that she is speaking
to a stranger and that I am
no stranger to grief.
I tell her too that I have heard
many sad stories
and I am here to listen to hers,
if and when she is ready.
Our time has run out
so we make another
in two weeks to yarn again
and we each hang up
the phone.
Click.