The Cypress Maze

by Fiona Valpy

your calm, deep tones, so serious when you were talking about your work and so quick to reveal the warmth of your sense of humour when you relaxed.

A faint breath of breeze stirs the strands of my hair that have escaped from their messy chignon, tickling the side of my neck. For a moment, I close my eyes and let myself imagine it’s your breath. I lift my chin, wanting more, longing for your lips on my skin. But the movement breaks the fragile spell, and you are gone again.

Granny, who is still as sharp-eyed at ninety-four as she’d ever been, noticed how difficult I was finding it. Or maybe she’s just lived long enough and experienced enough grief of her own to understand mine. She seemed to know that what I needed was not what my family was offering. What I yearned for was space and peace, the luxury of not having to protect the people I love

It’s amazing how little one needs sometimes to feel a lot more human.

I think grief is a bit like that, I tell you. You become trapped in it and no one can really help you get out. Of course, other people can support you, keep you company, perhaps even distract you sometimes. But you have to go through the struggle yourself to become strong enough to survive life after loss.

I know only too well, from my own experience, how fickle memories can be. Like my photographs, they’re snapshots of moments in time and space, but they rarely tell the whole story. Some memories dominate and obscure others.