Writings shared by Zipporah,
member of
The Mending Word
10 Part Series

I would be lying if I labeled this to my loved ones.

This is a letter to everyone, no – not everyone, not really.

It’s to those who have never experienced grief, the loss of a loved one.

For if you had lost a loved one you wouldn’t say tactless things or

Act like everything is still the same.

It’s not. It wont ever be.

I’m not the same person you knew.

Or thought you knew.

I don’t care for conversations, especially if it’s about your loved one.

And I don’t have the energy to explain.

I couldn’t come up with the words anyway.

Coffee doesn’t taste the same. Trees look different.

I’m not afraid of the dark. The sun hurts my eyes.

Cars go and go and go their tires endlessly spinning – and you’re still talking.

Just shut up. Go away.

I don’t care what you have to say. You’re irritating. Everyone’s irritating.

I want to grab the insides of your cheeks and stretch them out so

Your face pops and I don’t need to listen to you anymore.

You’re still talking.

Everyone’s talking.

The words, they bounce off

Around, and inside of me.

They don’t hurt. The words.

They’re just really annoying.

You need to go.

Stop telling me about your son, who was away from home

Or how you’re sorry you didn’t come to shiva

Because you were needed in the store.

I don’t care. I never did. I don’t think I’ll start now.

I don’t know who I was before.

It’s just a few days in this moment

Yet feels like a lifetime ago.

I’m still getting familiar with this new me.

The one after.

There’s no going back.

I remember I used to like gushers and lemon shots

But I can’t taste them anymore.

I definitely can’t explain grief, what I’m going through.

I don’t know

And I don’t even want to.

I just want you to be quiet.

Writings shared by anonymous member of
The Mending Word
10 Part Series

To the world, I wonder what you see when you look at me. Can you tell? Can you see it in my eyes? When I’m on the train, and my forehead suddenly creases, can you tell it’s from the unwelcome memory of my mother’s final moments filling up my brain, my body? When you see me laughing at a party, do you know I’m lying in bed later that night, frozen with fear, filled with images of my father’s suffering? When you see me at a work meeting, polite and professional, do you know I have to turn off my video and mute my mic because I’m suddenly crying - stupid tears inconveniently timed for a Wednesday morning? Can you see the things I’ve seen? Is it in the way my body will tense up sometimes without warning? World, do you know what I’ve been through? No. How can you? No one will ever know. Just me. Don’t think I don’t hate you for it, your blissful ignorance. It has infuriated me, but I have come to accept that no one will ever know, until they know. Love, (but please don’t stare) Anonymous

Writings shared by Michal,
member of
The Mending Word
10 Part Series

Dear Mommy,

Happy Birthday. 

I’ve written you many letters but I don’t think I’ve ever written you one with an apology. Maybe because I’m too embarrassed of my young, immature, bratty self. But maybe I'm just being too hard on myself, for I was only a teenager after all. I didn't know what cancer meant. I didn’t know that you had a life sentence running out, an expiration date quickly looming, that you were actually going to die and disappear from my life forever.  I thought you would never die. At least, not like this. Not at 65. Myself, at 22.

Maybe when you were old, really old, in your 90s, you’d go peacefully in your sleep, after your married off your children, after you met my children, not like this, screaming in pain, begging for god to give you life, fighting for every painful moment if it meant another moment you’d live. Ive never seen someone fight like you. I've never seen such a will to live. How can I myself now not fight every single day, restless in my sleep, anxious all the time, to live a great and meaningful life after seeing you fight for it? 

Mommy.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry for the weekends I left you, being with stupid boys and friends when I should have been home with you. I'm sorry for begrudgingly coming home when you were crying about your sickness and pain when I should have been there in the first place, holding your hand, rubbing your back and crying with you. 

I feel so many times that I have failed you. I should have done more. I should have listened more. Maybe that’s why I spend all this time now listening to people’s words and holding their pain. Because I didn't do it for you. I know I took care of things, I know I was responsible, and that you trusted me out of everyone to take care of the family and hold us together. But I could have done more. I could have been more. For you. 

I should have listened to you, cried with you, held your pain and tears in my heart as you held mine my entire life. I should have hugged you like you always hugged me. Even when you were really sick and weak, you took me in your arms and held me gently and wiped my tears away and told me everything that I needed to hear in that moment. I never found the right words in those moments for you. Maybe that's why I write so much now, to find the words I couldn't find for you, to find them for someone else and to hold them and to breathe life into them. I'm sorry mommy that I wasn't there before. But I'm here now. I'm holding the space now. Even though it’s too late for you, it’s not too late for others. I know you’re helping and guiding me through this, just like you used to do for others. Your blood runs through my veins after all, so how could you not?