Later this week, it will be the first anniversary of my daughter Georgina’s death. For Georgina’s funeral, I wanted to write a poem about her, but – so mammoth was the task of encapsulating my fierce, delicate girl- I failed miserably to come up with any words about her at all.
Over the last twelve months, I have written and written, because it’s what Georgina wanted for me and it somehow seems to help with the pain. My desk has crumpled notebooks spilling out of its every orifice. Short stories and small-to-medium-sized poems about anything and everything. All of them are, of course, imbued with my sense of loss and my love for Georgina. When I write about a flower or a storm or monsters, I’m really processing what happened to her – describing a part of our experience, albeit in a round-the-houses way. But each time I try to face Georgina’s memory head-on, it’s like I’m dazzled and she disappears into a sunspot, where I can’t quite grasp her, no matter how I flap around.
So, I am setting myself the challenge of looking directly at my shining daughter – with special specs, if necessary. I will hold her gaze, even if it makes my eyes water. I will write ‘that’ poem – one that is actually ‘about’ her . This is my promise to myself and to my daughter. Hold me to it.