This is the post excerpt.
I don’t want to sound depressing, but I still need to talk to you mum. It is just too painful to think that we can no longer speak. So I will write to you instead. I hope that somewhere, in some magical, wonderful way, my words will reach you, that you can watch my children grow, and that perhaps someday, you might just let me know you’re listening.
Just like you told us to, we went on holiday. We took dad, thinking that we would be better off grieving together than alone.
I wanted to tell the man sat next to me on the plane that he had taken your seat, that you should have been sat there. But I thought better of it, realising that he may have worried that he was sitting next to someone dangerously deranged.
It was hard, really hard. We’ve been there so many times with you and dad, so your absence was really brutally obvious.
I felt so selfish in admitting that at times I was pissed off as there was no-one there to help me with the kids in the pool, but I realised that I was actually pissed off because you weren’t there. We went to your favourite restaurant, the food was lovely & we discovered that girl-child has a real taste for carrot tempura. I can’t say I was quite so delighted when she vomited every scrap of her carrot tempura onto the patio when we got back though.
Your granddaughter spent several days dressed entirely in a red and black flamenco dancing dress. It was 37 degrees and blazing hot, so I was slightly concerned that the lovely polyester fabric of the dress (bought as cheaply as possible from a market stall) may begin to take on a very special and not terribly pleasant odour. But, it seems that four year olds don’t sweat quite as profusely as I’d imagined – even after a full three hours of dancing on the patio, whilst your grandson played his own special interpretation of Spanish music on garage band.
We talked about you a lot. Nothing was quite as much fun. Wherever we went, it felt like there was a mum-shaped hole, a chair not taken, a voice no longer audible. But I guess that’s just what we have to get used to. That mum-shaped hole will not be filled, but hopefully one day, the edges will be less raw.
Love you Mumsie.
I know you would have laughed. I can see your face, bright like sunshine, eyes crinkled with laughter. It’s you that I wanted to call & tell, you who would have felt my mix of shame and delight.
It was Sunday. We took the children to feed the ducks & to play frisbee on the green. It was nice. They had fun running around. Girl-child asked boy-child to tell her what the delightful graffiti said. They chatted to one another as they ran up the steps the castle green. Both children began to shout random rhyming words.
An older couple walked by & commented on our lovely children, just as girl-child shouted the following words AT THE VERY TOP OF HER VOICE:
I think you’d find that really funny.
I love you mumsie.
I wake each morning with crushing disappointment. I realise that I am still trapped in this awful dream, and I’m so frightened that I might realise it’s real.
I still cannot believe you’ve gone. It was too quick, too shocking, too brutal. We held your hands and told you how much we love you as you slipped away. You told my children that you love them just half an hour before you were gone.
When I was alone with you, I begged you to come back to us, to wake from your eternal sleep. I am not ready for you to go, I need you.
It is lonely now you’ve gone. I have my friends and family, but my instinct to call you each day, or when one of the children does something funny, wonderful, challenging, is yet to subside.
I shall satisfy this urge to share my moments with, I will write to you often, in the hope that by some magic, you will hear me.
Love you mumsie.