Eleven

 It's eleven years since Kelly died. A decade plus without her being in the world. Three times a year I visit her grave: her birthday, her death day, our wedding anniversary. I used to visit her parents on those days, but I grew anxious about it. I didn't want to be a physical reminder of the worst day of their lives, some awful harbinger who shows up at the most awful time, clutching a bunch of lilies. So now I never see them. Which is ridiculous, as they're lovely. I should ring them. On a date that isn't circled in red on the calendar.    

I miss her every day. She was brilliant. Funny, smart, beautiful. It seems extraordinary I only knew her for five years, now less than a tenth of my life. I've lived in Belfast for twice as much time as we ever had together - and it's very much her fault I'm here! Like all Englishmen, I'd never even heard of Belfast before I met her. I'd have made all those UK/GB gaffes. I'd have called England "the mainland". I'd have been over qualified for Secretary of State. I was a monster. She soon sorted me out. She taught me a lot. She was a smarto. 

I'm going to the grave again today. My friend Shauna is taking me, as there is literally no way to get to Gulladuff without a car, and I'm one of those cool guys who can't drive. I'm fairly certain I moved to London to disguise this fact. Kelly couldn't drive either. London was perfect for us - we were people who thrived in a environment with an integrated transport system. 

In two weeks we bury my mother's ashes. The family are all coming over for a short ceremony by the graveside. She's being buried with my father in Cavan, if the priest will ever answer my e-mails and confirm a time. It'll be good. She'll be where she wanted to be - with him. 

Media vita in morte sumus...