Hi Mum. I know I’ve never written to you like this but I got the idea from… well, a comic book, actually. I don’t know if somewhere in the great beyond you’re able to read this on some metaphysical wavelength or whatever, but I don’t think worrying about how you’re meant to see this is really the point of the exercise.
In fact, never mind writing to you, I’ve not often spoken to you since you left us. I hope you don’t hold it against me. I don’t remember how I felt about this stuff as a ten year old, but throughout most of my life I’ve been quite far removed from the spiritual side of things. I call myself agnostic, but that’s mostly a formality these days. In my heart of hearts, there has only ever been one thing that’s removed me from pure atheistic disbelief, and that’s the feeling that you’re watching over me. I can put it down to psychological reasoning, sure, but just as I know deep down that there is no god, I also know that somehow, somewhere, you’re still with me.
Anyway, mushy stuff aside. The world has changed a lot since you left us. And obviously you’ve seen it change alongside me, if my threadbare faith is to be believed. The thing is, though, I have no idea what kind of person you’d be in today’s world. Hell, I only ever knew you through the eyes of a child, and those memories age with every passing year. How would you fare in this world of smartphones and Covid and geopolitical tension? Would you be a Candy Crush expert? What would your profile on Facebook look like? What kind of person would I be with 17(!) more years of you in my life?
I must apologise, for this letter will naturally return to me and my life by its very nature. But I don’t think you’d mind. Because you see, the one defining feature I remember of you is your kindness. I could sit here and speculate on how you’d react to every modern development and every passing controversy, but all I need is one glance back at my memories of you to know that it’s all irrelevant to your character. You were amazing, and no matter what life threw your way, that would shine through. It’s your legacy, in a way, because I try to give out the kind of love that I was brought up on.
Grief is different for everyone, every time, and when you died I was certainly left too numb to ever believe that the end of your life had ever really happened to me. It wasn’t until… well, a few years ago that I really opened myself up to what you went through, beyond the scope of what it meant for me and my life. But, by way of this coping mechanism, and as perhaps a kind of mercy, I was spared the raw pain of longing for the times before. They simply… had been, and now were not. That was all. But do not think for a second that you are not as much a part of me as the blood that runs through my veins, the oxygen that enters my lungs. Sometimes I see someone who looks a little like you, and a little part of my brain spins up a fantastic tale of what if… what if, like in some pulp fiction, you were still out there somewhere, alive, hidden for reasons yet unrevealed. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not something I actually believe, but anyone who’s lost a loved one can probably relate to that little what if…
Of course, the dreadful asymmetry of fate doesn’t give us simple answers to questions of “if I had a time machine, would I undo the past?” Because of course I would, right? But then, of course, I’d never have met some of the other most important and wonderful people in my life. I’d never have met half of my family. And that’s a tough thing to reconcile, sometimes. The life that I lead would not exist if you were still here. How is that meant to make any sense at all? I suspect you would tell me not to worry about it, and remind me that I do not own a time machine. I suspect you would simply be glad that my life was so full of love despite you being gone. But it’s a thing, isn’t it? Like the actual question I ask myself every so often. Who would I be without the loss of you? How much of my personality would be the same without grief?
Such heavy hitting questions. I’d meant to write to you about casual things like iPhones and Instagram. But I suppose that’s what happens when you catch up with someone you love after a long time apart. Just know… well, what you already know. That I laugh every day. That I love more deeply than I can sometimes fathom. That you are my light in the dark. That I still write, that I create fervently, arbitrary notions of success be damned. That, despite many calculations needed to weigh the scales, I am happy.
How do I sign this off? Well, I’m reminded of our goodnight ritual from when I was a boy.
“Love you more than you love me!” “That’s impossible.”
(P.S – Hope you don’t mind but in the morning, I plan on publishing this whole thing on my blog. Partly for autobiographical reasons, partly because… I don’t know. There’s a few people I know who might find comfort in the knowledge that long term grief is more love than pain. I don’t think you’d mind.)
Perpetually Perturbed 