Laura’s Bench

… So I go for a walk and I find a bench with a view and sit for a while looking out over the countryside, staring at a patchwork valley of hills and fields, watching the summer swallows dancing in a blue sky. And as I sit there on the bench thinking about you and all the many memories I hold on this sad-strange anniversary day, I notice the brass plaque nailed to the wood beside me. In loving memory of Laura Kinsella who died at birth, 19 May 2005. Laura Kinsella, a girl who didn’t get to live one day in this world. And you, who lived 41 years and whom we still feel robbed of. And I think of the pain of the family who lost their Laura and I feel a sudden rush of love for them, strangers who know what it’s like to hold the ache of loss in their hearts. An ache that never leaves you, but shifts and changes – changes you – as the days roll by. And I lift my head and I say thank you to the sky, because it’s the only place I can think to look for you now. I say thank you for the years I got to spend with a man who loved me like I was a vital part of him, and who let me love him like he was a vital part of me. And I say thank you to the Kinsellas, whoever and wherever they are, for Laura’s bench, which was exactly where I needed it to be, today …

bench

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13 comments

  1. Such a lovely piece. You had a great love which will always be with you. At first I thought it was an extract from a new book by you given the photos of the English countryside and the inscription on the bench. I am sure you will do so one day.

  2. Anniversaries like this are so hard to make sense of, make peace with 😦
    That park bench seems to make both sense and peace, and though a twelve year old Laura running and laughing would be a far better thing than that bench, I’m glad that it’s there for you today x

  3. And I thank you, Hanna, for all the contemplations that this post has triggered in me. Do not think of your love as past tense, you love him now and I believe that when you remember him that memory is now. He is present.

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