Hope in small symbols

Daddy Blackbird #12

It was just a tiny mark on a stranger’s wrist, but it stayed with me longer than most of the conversations that came after Steve’s death.

A friend of a friend came by the house - a softly spoken man who volunteered at Citizens Advice. He was there to help me work through some of the practical issues I was facing. Benefits, entitlements, the kind of forms that seemed deliberately designed to confuse a person who could barely think straight.

We sat at the kitchen table, out of earshot of the girls, and I shakily sifted through all the paperwork.

Phil’s voice was gentle and kind. Steady. Human. I didn’t know him, but I could tell that he had the quiet presence of someone who’d been through his own darkness. And partway through explaining a form, he paused.

Slowly, silently, he rolled up his sleeve and showed me the inside of his wrist. There was a tiny tattoo: a semicolon, and he went on to explain what it meant...