top of page


At the beginning of this year - after everything that happened with my university reattempt - I wrote a book. I don't know what I'm ever going to do with said book, as I think my parents don't like the ending and we're all sort of waiting for a happy ending.

Though, that was kind of my point to the story, and how I told Mum to pitch it, but, that's neither here nor there.

Basically, it was my way of blurting everything out and due to my habit of keeping journals since I was nine, I felt like I had a pretty good foundation to write off of.

One of the little 'stories' inside the larger story is one that I preface as not being my story. It's more a story that belongs to the whole family, and my older brother, and therefore I wanted to treat it with respect, since, I really was more of a spectator in the events.

But because of how fundamental the situation was, and has been, to who I am today, it felt important to at least talk about.

My memories of this time are weird. It's a very dreamlike, floaty, feeling - almost like when I slip myself back into the scenes in my head, my feet aren't quite touching the hard floor of the hospital, or I'm only hearing muffled voices on the radio playing in my friend's car as we drive through the traffic to the hospital.

Recently a memory has been on my mind, more and more.

It was one I wrote about in the book:

I have a memory of this time, of walking into Andrew’s hospital room. Andrew is asleep, Mum and Dad are gone. Sunlight is filtering in through a large window, capturing the scene of my sister sitting curled upon the chair by the hospital bed, staring out into the distance, and my little brother lying beside Andrew. It was such a priceless tableau. I wish I could have captured it, and the frangibleness off it. There is no image in my memories that depicts the endearing love and solidarity of my siblings so perfectly as that crystallised moment in the shimmering sun.

I was going for a walk the other day, and the memory just sat in my mind. I couldn't understand why it had resurfaced. Sometimes, it just did. So, I decided that when I got home, I'd open up Photoshop and just paint it.

You know it's a lot harder to paint a memory than I thought.

But I don't think it really matters, I'm not being put on trial for the accuracy of my recollection skills.

This moment, for me, remains one of the most precious blinks in time. There is no photograph of it - so - this will have to do.

50 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All
bottom of page