Somewhere between remembering and forgetting, there is a forest.
A woman wakes beneath the trees.
There is a fox.
A mother.
A little girl.
A house.
A man.
And a forest that seems to remember everything.
The Forest is a quiet, dreamlike collection about memory, grief, love and letting go.
“Last night I woke up in the forest again.
There was frost on the ground.
I don’t worry about it anymore.
The trees don’t seem to.
They don’t know the days.
They know winter.
They know rain.
They know when the first green things begin pushing through the earth.
They know when to hold their leaves.
They know when to let them go.
I am learning.”
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The story behind the book
Her name was Margaret and she was my grandmother.
She had dementia.
And as her memory faded, I found myself wondering where she was.
Not physically.
I knew where she was.
But the woman I knew seemed to be disappearing, and I didn’t want to believe that she was simply gone.
I wanted to imagine that she was still somewhere.
Somewhere safe.
Somewhere peaceful.
Somewhere she could still be herself, even if that wasn’t our reality.
So I wrote about a forest where she was free.
I didn’t want the woman in this story to be frightened.
I wanted her to have somewhere to go.
Things to do.
A place where she could wander.
A place where people she loved could still find her.
And she could still find them.
Perhaps she is living with dementia.
Perhaps she is grieving.
Perhaps she is dreaming.
Perhaps she is in limbo.
Perhaps she is somewhere entirely different.
I don’t think there needs to be one answer.
I wrote The Forest from a very simple wish:
That somewhere, somehow, Margaret, my beloved Nanny, was still there.
And maybe one day, that meant I could visit her again too.