It has been two and a half years since Moy Moy died. Since then, I have almost completely stopped writing. Every time I think of starting again, I get through one or two paragraphs before realizing I don’t have anything to say. I can’t type now anyway. Extra letters appear in my words which I swear I didn’t put in. Other words come out half formed, like ghosts: incomplete and unsubstantial.

But I woke up this morning with a plan, a resolution for 2021. And I am starting it today, before the new year begins so it doesn’t feel too grand or too much like a promise. I will write something here every day. It may be just a line or two; maybe a few paragraphs – but something. And I won’t post links to any of it. If someone finds it, fine. If not, also fine. I’m writing now for myself.

Because I no longer believe I have anything to say to anyone else. When you lose a child, you feel like an idiot. I remember those first few weeks and months feeling so ashamed, wanting to avoid meeting anyone, unable to look anyone in the eye. How did I let it happen? And what could I, the idiot who made this massive error, have to say to anyone else that would be useful?

Young woman in wheelchair in foreground; background is a bookshelf full of books

What has saved me, if I am saved, is books. Since she died, I have read hundreds of books. I have three or four going all the time and I plunge from one to the other, gulping them down, greedy for the next one, looking, I suppose, for others like me: characters in a story who have lost a great love and are trying to put themselves back together.

So far, I’m still searching. This year I hope to emerge.

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