A letter I wish you could read my love.
Well my darling. It’s been 642 days. I’ve tried not to be too obsessive about counting but you know numbers were always my thing. A certainty to hold on to when everything is shifting under my feet. It used to drive you mad at first…as did so much of me ;) ….but you always listened to my various reasonings and discoveries about numerology…..and how I miss your rolling eyeballs as I twittered and you kindly feigned interest when actually, you’d want to get back to your book. Or your writing. Or another episode of Masterchef.
I know I didn’t appear interested in those endless cooking programmes in the last months of your life…..it wasn’t that my darling. It’s just that there was so much to do to try and save your life. And then to make the end of your life ok. Your prescious life that even now, these 642 days and a whole new life unfolding before me later….even now it doesn’t seem real that you’re not here. That your life is over.
I’m in our garden as I write this letter that I wish you could read…..the flowers that Maddy planted for you to sit and see and smell….they’ve all come up. They are beautiful . The clematis is particular….shes big and blousy and quite exceptional. Each time I come out here, I am reminded.
I am reminded of the hours we spent wondering what had happened that you had ended up with cancer. I am reminded of the winters night when we let your birthday balloon go off up in the air with a wish……..a wish that looking back, really was what wishes and dreams are made of…..childish hope. I am reminded of the balloon getting caught in the tree and us standing here holding hands together, you barely able to stand steady, me with my heart sinking…..and we looked and we willled and the balloon came free in the wind and took off over SKY City…that bit of Wood Green where you became the local councillor. Do you remember my darling how relieved we were? Two grown women, standing in the winter sun, putting all our wishes into a balloon drifting up to the clouds……I love that we never lost our childish side together. I love that for months afterwards, when things got tougher, we would reassure ourselves that you were just stuck in the branches but soon you would be free. Which I suppose you are. It’s hard to explain death to a child. Or perhaps it’s hard for a child to understand death.
I’m not the same child now that you’re not here Den. Everyone knows I miss you. But no one can ever know how much eh? But you would know my darling. If you could read this. You would know. How I wish you could.