The night my mother died I had no words. It was as if the lights went out. For months nothing came. It was too large and huge I couldn’t write a word and when they did come I couldn’t lay a glove on it. Cliches were dime a dozen. Over the weeks and months I broke it apart. I tried to approach the stillness of that night. The quiet roads enroute to the hospital. The stillness of the critical care unit with it’s peaceful bodies laid teetering between this world and the next. For years I had the scene but on the message I was quiet as a mouse, taking comfort that perhaps some moments are so momentous they must go without words.

Still I recognise that anguish now whenever I see it. Whenever someone attempts to put words on chaos. The politicians and news reporters who look pale in the morning light endeavouring to put some sense on a scene of obliterated children. There is torment when it dosen’t come and tirades from others when we have only our used up phrases... standing tall, defiant, unified, undefeated, resisting resisting resisting etc.

But what else is there? We’ve never been so vocal, never had such platforms and never strived so hard to unearth an authentic voice.  We must be forgiving then when it dosen’t come. We must allow ourselves these sins, these cliches and heavy sentiment, or else learn to live with silence.