I’ve haven’t done this, haven’t written one to you for a while, but tonight was one of those nights when I was left wide awake with words for you buzzing round in my head.
I wish you were here. I wish I could share my excitement, tell you my plans, make you just a little jealous of my trip. You would be worried by some things and I could talk to you about the things that I’m worried about. I could tell you what I feel without needing to neaten it up or make it pretty or practical.
I do talk to you, do tell you.. but I wish you could talk back, that I could read the messages voluble in your eyes.
I wish you could tell me it means something, that there is a final chapter, a happy ending, just past the point when you’re not quite sure it will work out alright. I wish I had a point of certainty, a rock.
Time has morphed and bent. It is a nothing and yet sometimes these eight months feels like I have lived them for so long.
From here your death looks different. I don’t have to tell it like a tragedy, I can let it be something that simply is. I can sit with it the way I sat with you. Now it is just another part of a long story, and it is not the bit I read back to the most.
You’re often in my thoughts. Your love, our memories, your life is all around me and I’m glad that I can bring you to me often, mostly without the start of pain. I never wanted my grief to become a box I locked you in and I’m glad to voice you, call you, let you be and breathe. I would not want my sadness to push you into another blackness, another death.
I miss you, always. That sometimes makes me cry, yet half my tears are happy ones. I had you in my life and there is part of you that is always with me, that will always be with me. I am so thankful for that.
Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to be a dad and how many fall far short.
As I walk through cold days with your love wrapped around me like a scarf, even long months after you are long gone, it is hard to imagine you any less than you were, to think there could have been another version of us. But the thought reminds me to be glad of all I had, to hold the best of it, to give love with the same generosity.
We were not an ideal family (though I’m never quite sure what that is). There was plenty that wasn’t perfect and I try to remember that when I’m rose tinting you and changing the picture into something that is easier to sell.
I remember times when I was angry with you, didn’t talk to you. But I can’t think of a time when I didn’t know you loved me and you knew my love for you. It is good to be reminded that love can flourish in rocky ground, cross over hard words and long droughts and endure, bloom, flourish. How much it endures really is amazing.