Renee Godding

“They are not here, her children. Not anymore. She finds them elsewhere sometimes. In the first smiles of her baby son, and the way his hair curls after a bath. They are in the high teenage voices of other children; girls the age her daughter would be now, with their gossamer clothing and their eyes lined in black uncertain rings. Her son, she finds sometimes in the gangs passing home from the primary school at the end of the road. The shove and snigger of them. The new unchildlike smell. And sometimes she sees them in her own face as she stares into the mirror after a night of broken milk-downed sleep, and counts the new lines around her eyes.
And she supposes, they are with Tom too. And she hopes that this is a solace and not a haunting.”
― Claire Gleeson, Show Me Where It Hurts

“Despite the hurt, I understand. Many days passed when I wanted to be away from moms grief, which filled every corner of the boat cabin. Even memories aren’t safe. A glimpse of a picture or smell is enough to catapult us back into the past when dad and Jay were alive, and rudely snap us back to reality. I share this grief with mom, and yet no words have ever made us better.”
― Trang Thanh Tran, They Bloom at Night

“There's something Fascist , don't you see, in the idea that your genes are your story?
I have learnt this: there are no border guards at the chambers of your heart. It's only the immigration officers who might care, where your mother was born, what passport your father carried.
If history grants you the chance, be free of all that, that's my advice”
― Sarah Moss, Ripeness

“In a way, I thought, our bodies are just containers. I’d always assumed that we have the capacity to absorb the world, to endlessly store everything that we come across. But as we sat there in silence, I began to question whether there were, in fact, things that could overflow from us. Is that what the Beacons were: people who had become too full?”
― An Yu, Sunbirth