It Has Been Seven Months

Dad - some thoughts written over the seventh month without you

I wish I was “up on the roof” with you. There’s so much turmoil here. 

~

I’m beginning to recognise the cycles of my grief now. A few days, maybe a week or so, of quiet sadness, numbness, like trudging through tar, memories, but no tears. Then something will occur to me. And an involuntary sob will escape. And then the days of crying hit. Every thought, every memory, every reminder of what we will miss with you, sets me off again. And then it slows again. Calm for a bit, before a wave of re-realisation. I feel it physically move through my body, and then it’s like I’ve been punched in the stomach. Nausea. Not crying for this part. Just pain and fatigue. And back to the quiet. Recognising the cycle doesn’t make it easier, but it reminds me that each way of feeling and being is normal. 

~ 

Why do we bother to pray? Every time I pray for healing, the people I care about die. My prayers haven’t saved a single person. 

~

“IT’S NOT THE DARKNESS I MIND. IT’S THE HOPE.”

— Death, Hogfather - Terry Pratchett

~

I thought about you a lot today. Wept into the cupcakes I was baking for J and Bertie’s joint party. Railed at God while I washed my hair. Not just for you, but for Hayley, and Rick, and Susan, Bex, and Uncle Brian, and now David is so poorly. You are praying up there, aren’t you? You need to. Gather everyone and pray for his healing. If there’s one thing this world doesn’t need more of, it’s fatherless children. 

~

When I got into the car to go to Mass, Radio 2 was on and playing a song I’ve never heard before. Father and Daughter by Paul Simon. What a beautiful song. It felt like you were singing to me. “There could never be a father who loved his daughter more than I love you.” I miss you. 

~

I stood and watched the grasses in the garden this evening. At least six different types, just gently dancing in the breeze. A butterfly fluttering around and settling on the grass. Either a meadow brown or a small copper - it was a little too far away to see properly. It was so calm, so peaceful. And looking round the garden I saw the honeysuckle you gave me, the holly that managed to grow from a branch you brought home from a walk with the children, and the Norfolk quaking grasses you and Mum brought back from Grandad’s garden. Reminders of you everywhere. 

~ 

David died. I’m sure you’re already having a great old time up there with him. Us? We’re heartbroken. 

~

If you were here what would say about all this? I know you believed with such deep certainty in Heaven and the power of prayer and in being Jesus to those you met. But what would you have told me about all this sadness? Grief is for us, I know. But how are we supposed to keep going in this world of pain and violence and tears? It’s just endless. I wish you were here, even just to feel your peaceful confidence. 

~

I feel too sad to write. I can’t share the things I want to say. 

~

When you died, I couldn’t write. Only short sentences. Tiny scraps of memories. I was getting better at it again, able to write for longer. But I feel like I’m back at that point again. Compound grief is shit. 

~

I am the chair for others’ grief again. Exhausting. 

~ 

Bea and I are at the hair salon for her big haircut. Shakira’s Hips Don’t Lie has just come on. It’s good of you to be here with us. I bet you’re so proud of her. Nearly 24” of hair to donate and she’s raised nearly £800. 

~

We sat in your yarden, well, just Mum’s now, I suppose. She’s calling it your Memorial Garden, for Humanity & Not Hostility. She’s done a lot of work in it. It’s lovely. But everything beautiful is touched by sadness. It makes me think we should be doing something big, in your name, but thats not how you did things. If everyone could just do small kind things with big love and a bit of silliness how much more wonderful this world could be.

~

Seven months without you. It’s constantly getting harder. So few people checking in now. The stalwart few will be forever etched in my heart. The sheer love I feel from them. Grief is so lonely, particularly when you’re not very good at talking about things. I feel most at peace when I’m watching the bees and butterflies in our garden. We even had a dragonfly the other day. It makes me feel you’re here. 

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