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Quote by Kaliane Bradley

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The Ministry of Time

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Kaliane Bradley

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“Rewind the Film I wish I had a film of you. I’d love to see you move again, to see the gestures that I knew when you were here, as we were then, and know I’d not forgotten what was true of you and what was not. I’d watch as if through window panes and you still moved beyond the glass, knowing memory remains although the years and lives must pass, and from your movements could infer the unity of what you were. Perhaps I’d hear your voice again, if no more than a sound or two, and know it as I knew it when we rested on the grass, and you would close your eyes and feel the sun as if the end had not begun. I’d know that what I heard and saw was not the shadow of my mind and know you almost as before, when in the outward form I’d find the creature that I couldn’t see or hear, and all you were to me, as if I felt a wind that blew across that insubstantial day or sun illuminating you because I’ve felt the sunlight play on flesh, and though the hours pass had reached the world beyond the glass.”

DeathPoetryLossMemory
Book:Voices from Another Room
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“One of the hardest things about losing my mom at a young age was that everyone else seemed to still have their moms. That feeling of isolation lasted beyond the initial shock and heartache of losing her, and it became even more difficult after I had my own daughter. It felt so cruel that they would never get to know each other. When I was pregnant, I’d often wonder if my baby would look like her. I secretly hoped that my child’s arrival would, in some way, bring my own mother back. Then my daughter was born—with sparkly blue eyes and strawberry blond hair. She was lovely, but she didn’t look a thing like my mom (or me, for that matter). She didn’t really act like her, either. But that was okay! She is an entirely different person, after all.”

LossDaughterMotherhoodIsolation
Book:You're Mom: A Little Book for Mothers
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“Then again, in the early morning hours, when the world outside whispers of slumber, my fingers still trace the outline of a memory. He rests there, in that blind spot between the everyday, when his presence feels most palpable, engraved on the half of the bed that remains unforgivingly empty. What a paradox of loss, this heightened sense of him in the heart of his absence.”

LoveLossMissingLongingMemoryParadoxIntrospectionPsychological FictionLyrical Prose
Book:We Are Everyone
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