Hopes and Dreams - Creative Writing Competition Winners

Today we are pleased to bring you the second place entry in our Hopes and Dreams creative writing competition. We all loved this entry, it is such a touching story. 

Once again we would like to thank everyone who entered this competition. The standard of writing by our East Lothian residents is extremely high which made choosing our winners very difficult! 

A Mother's Dreams

by Alexandra Davey

We are to choose a headstone for the grave. A lump of stone to mark where he is not. Dreary grey granite, cold black marble; neat, embossed words in a language he never spoke. Words that won’t say what I want to make known: the world is a better place because he was in it. He was my teacher, guide, comfort and motivation. He spoke truths without words and moved mountains from his chair. He is safe now; he need fight no more. 

That night I dream I am lost in a landscape of boulders, stumbling in the mist, cutting and bruising my shins every time I fall.

*

For the first time in two weeks I can see the stars. The clear sky means cooler air, and it’s unusually still for the east coast. Calm and silent, the night smells of damp grass and the faint tang of the sea. 

His star is there! Still the brightest, and the first to catch the eye above the silhouetted line of the kitchen roof. I mutter a prayer of thanks that I can find it after a fortnight of cloud. I need to track its nightly progress across the sky.

I greet it first from the step outside the kitchen door, checking in at the day’s end as I used to check on him. I peep again from inside, parting the striped curtains at his bedroom window, whispering goodnight. Sleep tight, precious boy. Mummy loves you. Wait for me. 

That night I dream I am searching through thousands of stars to find one special one. They are diverse as snowflakes, yet none has the twinkle I seek. 

*

I go out to the Deer Park cemetery early, before the rest of the family is awake. May sunshine dazzles my eyes, rays bursting through the clouds onto a calm sea, waves breaking gently on the east beach. In three months I've not once been here in rain. Twin hornbeams guard the entrance: their leaves have doubled in size since last week. The hawthorn hedges are bursting with blossom, and the scent of wild garlic is rich on the breeze. 

His tiny tête-a-tête daffodils are nodding. I count the five paper butterflies, one for each of us. Someone has added a cheerful rainbow windmill. It will soon fade in the wind and sun. 

And the swifts are here, their energy seemingly boundless despite the long journey. They swoop and dart with incongruous revelry among the gravestones. Sometimes I also want to screech here, to sing, to run or to dance. I don't come to the Deer Park talk to him: he's not here, no more than he is anywhere else on earth. I come to notice the passing of the seasons: to remind myself that he is gone. I pray to God: keep him safe until I come.

That night I dream of flying with the swifts, but their reckless toing and froing frustrates me. I want to fly further, higher, faster, to where he is waiting.

*

We take a first, strange, family holiday without him: driving the breadth of the country, through bluebells and rainbows, to the west coast. The car seems too big: a conspicuous space on the rear seat; the boot piled high not with feeds, medications and equipment but with a paddleboard, bike helmets, beach games. Our itinerary is more relaxed now: unconstrained by the need for ramps and proximity to hospitals, we can go anywhere, do anything: catch a foot ferry to the islands, climb a mountain, stay out late. It feels like betrayal. A bright balloon in our holiday snaps is an Instagram-friendly way to fill an unfillable gap. A symbol that although we carry on without him, he is not forgotten. A reminder that we are five. Fly high little one, no longer tethered to this earth. 

That night I dream of orange balloons, drifting free above a sea of bluebells into a rainbow sky. 

*

I am collating all our photos of him. From tiny, peaceful babe, all cheeks and eyelashes, to strapping, tousle-haired seven-year-old. Photos with his little sister: uncomplaining as she climbs heedlessly over him and plants boisterous kisses on his face. Photos with his big sister: curled together on the bed, head to head, hand in hand. Pictures with Daddy, working hard on his sitting and standing, playing games or snoozing together in front of the TV. Not so many pictures with me – I’m usually behind the camera; mostly hospital selfies taken to send home with a report of the day’s progress. A few, precious, family photos; even fewer where I don’t look distracted, and the littlest is not pulling a face. I’m sorry I didn’t take more, when we had the time. 

That night I dream we are five again. I awake to find his sisters have sneaked into bed with us, and are hugging me tight. 

*

We agree to turn his bedroom into a playroom. The walls will stay orange, the curtains still candy-striped, but the hospital bed has gone and with it the machines and medicines. There are his fluffy cushions and snuggly blankets, alongside the girls’ jigsaw puzzles and Lego. His suncatcher still hangs in the window, sending sparkles around the room on fine mornings. The walls are crowded with his artworks: sunflowers, snowmen, a vivid Chinese dragon. Soon there will be copies of those family photos, too. A room for us to remember and celebrate our little boy. A room to laugh and a room to love. We all still call it The Benji Room. 

That night I dream he is watching his sisters play together. Sparkles of light dart around the room, alighting momentarily, like butterflies, on each one of us that remains.