Bittersweet Memory

First published in my old notebook February 8, 2014

Bittersweet Memory

My daughter exists only here now, trapped in this yellowing photo, her features scarred with fold marks caused by her long imprisonment in my wallet.

The memory of her face hovers at the back of my mind; a vibrant sweetness that I can't ever touch again. This likeness is but a pale reflection of all she was. I hate it for not capturing her essence, but it's all I have now. I cling to it like a lover that I've lost interest in, but daren't give up.

Will I still carry this imitation in my pocket and my heart when it stops conjuring her in my mind? Will I ever forget the perfection of her smile? Will the trust in her eyes fade to a shadow of a dream?

I can't imagine ever casting it aside, even though it just taunts me with my ultimate failure. It will be my personal millstone forever.

I fold the photo back into its tiny, safe square again, hold it to my lips. My fingers grip it tight, pinching like I'm trying to stem blood from a wound. I wish I'd held on to her small hand this tight in that crowd all those years ago.

I wrote this story for the monthly writing competition in the Amazon Kindle Owners group on Goodreads. The theme was "old photos" and the word count limit was 200 words.  I was  surprised and delighted when it won.

The Reunion

I am scattering content from my old notebook amongst the new so if you followed my last blog you may have read this story before.



This was written for a Goodreads writing contest (in the amazon kindle group), and it didn't come last (always a positive). The theme was "memories inspired by colour" and the word count limit was 200 words, so I had to cut it a little more than I'd have liked to. Here is the slightly expanded version.

The Reunion

I order a glass of rosé while I wait and regret my choice immediately. The swirling soft pink in my glass takes me back 22 years in a moment. I swallow down the lump in my throat. This is supposed to be a happy day.


I was so excited to be
having a girl; as soon as the scan was finished we went to the DIY store
to pick up pale pink paint. After three boys I was finally getting my
little girl. I was so happy.


I bought her dollies and princess dresses, but she only played with them when I wanted to play with her. She suffered ringlets and ribbons with an impatient tolerance, when I had begged and pleaded with her.



 She was never a girly girl, was happier playing football with her brothers, rolling in the mud, fighting with her brothers, making friends with the boys. It is normal for a girl with so many brothers to relate better to boys though, isn't it?


My little girl, gone forever.


She went abroad two years ago. The phone calls slowed, then stopped, replaced with the odd e-mail instead. That last e-mail stabs at my heart, the one where she explained to me that I'd never see her again. Why hadn’t she told us? Didn't she know we'd never have judged her? We'd have understood. She didn't have to leave us, hide away and do it. I would have held her hand.


I breathe unsteadily. This is supposed to be a happy day.


My son breezes in then, I spot him as soon as he comes through the doors, and we hug for a long time, almost too long. I am putting off looking into his eyes, my daughter’s eyes.


My Jennifer, who is now my Jonathon. I have lost a daughter, but gained a son.