Nine.
Nine years ago I failed to get across town in time. The message came on my crappy Nokia in the back of the taxi. My mum in the front seat chatting to the driver.
Nine years. Next year is the big one, I suppose, but nine years seems monumental: a great black boulder blocking the way, impassable and impossible. Nine years since I've seen you. Nine years since I've spoken to you. Nine years since I last saw your smile. Or your closed eyes.
I didn't know what to do, you wouldn't be surprised to hear. I never knew what to do. I didn't know what to do on that day and often since. You were gone. I was still here. I drank a lot, you wouldn't be surprised to hear.
Its a strange negotiation: I'm starting to be able to remember how happy we were. For a long time I only remembered the pain, the loss, the silence. But the happiness - the real picture, the true image - is bleeding through, after almost a decade. We laughed a lot. We had a lot of fun. Even through the prism of the subsequent horror, I'm starting to remember. Its like the feeling coming back into to my extremities, a warm tingle tickling the numbness. Memory stirring. At last. I've missed you so much.
One day I'll break that boulder down. Like Hannibal melting the Alpine stones in his pathway with vinegar, I've a lot of rubble to bubble if my elephants are to be free to pass. Elephant's never forget, of course, so its best not to go drinking with them. They soak it up too. I am mostly off the booze - I can no longer keep up with Colonel Hathi's Dawn Patrol.
I shall be down to see your grave on Saturday. In keeping with most church websites it isn't actually clear if the graveyard is open - Covid 19 has knackered some freedom of movement and the Government's "guidance" is spottily unknowable. We have a pandemic now. That's new. The best way to survive is to hide in your bedroom for months. You'd have walked it. You put in the hours.
I'm not there, really. I do still have to deal with the horror of missing you every day, the knowledge of what you went through, the brilliant life that was stolen from you. It was so unfair. You were so wonderful. And you were SO going places...
But the silly things filter through a bit. Every now and again I'll stop and smile. And I'll remember some wonderful thing you said or did. And it doesn't just hurt. I'm happy too. Half and half.
Nine years. Next year is the big one, I suppose, but nine years seems monumental: a great black boulder blocking the way, impassable and impossible. Nine years since I've seen you. Nine years since I've spoken to you. Nine years since I last saw your smile. Or your closed eyes.
I didn't know what to do, you wouldn't be surprised to hear. I never knew what to do. I didn't know what to do on that day and often since. You were gone. I was still here. I drank a lot, you wouldn't be surprised to hear.
Its a strange negotiation: I'm starting to be able to remember how happy we were. For a long time I only remembered the pain, the loss, the silence. But the happiness - the real picture, the true image - is bleeding through, after almost a decade. We laughed a lot. We had a lot of fun. Even through the prism of the subsequent horror, I'm starting to remember. Its like the feeling coming back into to my extremities, a warm tingle tickling the numbness. Memory stirring. At last. I've missed you so much.
One day I'll break that boulder down. Like Hannibal melting the Alpine stones in his pathway with vinegar, I've a lot of rubble to bubble if my elephants are to be free to pass. Elephant's never forget, of course, so its best not to go drinking with them. They soak it up too. I am mostly off the booze - I can no longer keep up with Colonel Hathi's Dawn Patrol.
I shall be down to see your grave on Saturday. In keeping with most church websites it isn't actually clear if the graveyard is open - Covid 19 has knackered some freedom of movement and the Government's "guidance" is spottily unknowable. We have a pandemic now. That's new. The best way to survive is to hide in your bedroom for months. You'd have walked it. You put in the hours.
I'm not there, really. I do still have to deal with the horror of missing you every day, the knowledge of what you went through, the brilliant life that was stolen from you. It was so unfair. You were so wonderful. And you were SO going places...
But the silly things filter through a bit. Every now and again I'll stop and smile. And I'll remember some wonderful thing you said or did. And it doesn't just hurt. I'm happy too. Half and half.
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