Today I sat on a bench, squinting in the sunshine, facing a small mound of reddish brown earth and flints, on which there were painted stones, solar-powered lights and artificial flowers, a small hand-written note encased in plastic, an ornamental hedgehog, curled up as if asleep, a large model of a bumble bee and a wooden disk with a girl’s name on it. And a single, long-stemmed cream and pink rose.

The rose was mine; was the grief?

I first heard that she had died last November. My friend and former teaching colleague called me, her tone instantly telling me that something awful had happened. It had been swift, unexpected and brutal. In one weekend, her parents had lost their only daughter. The news took away my breath for a moment.

My friend and I talked and then, when she’d hung up, I took a small, decorated card and began to write. I wrote about all the things I could remember about this child, from the year I’d spent as her teacher and the years before that when I’d briefly taught and encountered her. I wrote about all the happiness, the jokes and laughter we’d shared, the qualities I’d seen in her. This, I thought, was what I could give her parents: moments and insights that they’d not seen. I posted the card and worried that perhaps I’d remembered her wrongly, or expressed myself inadequately.

Last night was jubilant. A friend, a mother whose children I had taught was celebrating the launch of her book. You’ll know her soon enough: her writing is brilliant. Among the crowd in the packed bookshop, there were other mothers. We drank and talked and laughed. I kicked myself for not remembering one and was determined not to admit that I didn’t know another, even though we spent half an hour talking. I should have remembered the eyes.

As the other mums queued to have their books signed, she turned back to me and said thank you for the card. The eyes that I should have remembered filled with tears as she told me that she’d not yet had a chance to write to all people who’d written to her. And I slowly opened my arms, offered them to her and held her. This is what I’d wanted to do when I was writing my card. My arms are more eloquent than my my words, which, however hard I try, feel artificial.

We talked a lot. About her dog, and how her daughter had so persistently lobbied for it. About other things – our degrees, our interests, our work. And about where her daughter was now. She told me about the bee. “You’ll know where it is when you see the bee.”

We all tumbled out of the bookshop and descended into the tube station. There was a pretty hurried goodbye at the mainline station as my train was about to leave. A quick hug and I was away.

On the train, crushed up in a corner, I searched the internet for mention of her daughter. I found the memorial site, read the comments and looked at the picture. I gave some money to one of the charities on the website and put my phone down.

What was I feeling? I was still excited for our friend, the debut novelist. I was weighing up the worrying news about another pupil of mine who’s being bullied for who he is. And I felt relief that I’d finally been able to speak to this mother who had lost her daughter.

I had a terrible night: my body’s response to the Covid booster caused painful cramps and drenched me with sweat. I woke up drugged with tiredness but determined to visit that place with the bee.

I don’t know why I told the women in the flower shop about the girl. She knew our school, knew the nearby garden of rest and knew that sometimes life is really shit.

I drove to the garden, parked outside and walked in, with no idea of where she’d be. After ten minutes of reading every headstone, I texted my friend. ‘She’s right at the back, with a bee. There’s a bench nearby where you can sit.”

And that’s where I ended up, looking at the young girl’s grave and trying to make sense of what I felt.

Grief is a hole in my belly that bends me double.

Grief is a keening, wailing voice in my head.

Grief is a great, grey cloud that stops me from feeling anything.

Grief is a tension running through my arms and hands, which hang helpless to make anything better.

Grief makes no sense. How DARE I, when I still have a daughter, feel so much?

I eat grief when I encounter it, even when it’s not mine to feel. I’ve watched my father, speechless with grief as he walked from the hospital room where my mother had just died. I’ve watched my father-in-law crushed by grief at losing his wife. I feel grief every time I lie in my mother’s bed, surrounded by her belongings, as if she’d just left the room a moment before.

But those were long lives, even if they ended sooner that we’d wanted.

How can I make sense of this morning? I don’t know. But I’ll visit her again, as often as I can. And I hope to become better acquainted with her mother, as we share interests and love our dogs. And I will try to be a good friend, if I’m permitted.