I was 6 years old. I was in year 2. I was new to the school, and had no siblings there yet. I was little, I was naturally quiet. The sums on the blackboard were blurring. I couldn't think. I couldn't process. The teacher stood me there, and bore down creating pressure to do the sums. Words, actions, positioning. And I couldn't. Tears sat in my eyes. I was allowed to sit back down after what felt like an eternal moment. |
I was watched, I was quietly laughed at, I was ignored in the play ground. I wasn't one sought to be drawn into games, or activities. I sat on the edges, played by myself, did my work, wandered through the days in an alone and unaccepted space, neglected by peers.
These are the moments of a child's untouched grief. They hold deep, they have been worked down, layered over by attempts to cope, layered over life's others experiences and pains. But still they are there. Real, powerful, and quiet. Operating in a hidden way. Not entirely forgotten.
It would be a long time, a very long time, before a place of acceptance, a place of not being alone was close. It would be a struggle to come to that place - my heart kicking and screaming in a painful tussle to see it's possibility.
This grief rises now in life's experiences. It is time to hold it. It is time to let the deep ache surface, acknowledge its presence, its influence. It's part in my story.
I was 6 years old. I was in year 2. I was little . . .