On my journey to work, I wanted to capture the scene with my camera as the fog swirled in the deepest valleys. It lay thick in places obliterating the quintessential English landscape one moment, then clearing the next, allowing the views to come into focus. That’s how my grief feels. It lies low in my deepest memories and appears without fail as the day approaches. My brain acts as the camera flashing all the images of that day in front of me; the voices, the sensations, the guttural cry deep from within. It’s a scene that appears every year. I go through the motions of my day on automatic as my mind has gone to another place. A place where my son is with me. A place where I can see what he has grown to look like. A place where I can hear him laugh. A place where we eat ‘Angel Food Cake’ for no reason. I slip into the fog, deep in the valley on that morning. It’s a place I need to be, where my world turns a little bit slower. Where I remember. Where I honour. Where the fog lies.
In remembrance of Matthew x