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.