And around it comes again. Fifteen years since we lost you, fifteen years that have gone by both in a rush and which have dragged. So many changes, so many good times, so many lows.
Life, they say, goes on after you lose someone and that’s certainly true. But the pain – whilst it may fade – never really goes away. When Jamie collected his GCSE results, when he did so well, I was heartbroken that you weren’t there to share in his success. I was sad that you will never get to meet him as he is now: a nice, sweet, kind young man with a wicked sense of humour not so far removed from yours.
I have been quite low these past few days with the build-up to today. I know it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy to make myself sad before the event, but I’ve woken up this morning and after a moment of reflection have realised that I’m actually OK today. OK doesn’t mean I don’t miss you, I miss you several times a day, every day. What I wouldn’t give for an opportunity to talk rubbish on the phone with you again. But I learned a long time ago that lingering on ‘I wish’ won’t help the healing process.
Struggling to find my Christmas head this year. However, as it’s… Today… the tree will go up tonight. I suspect that may help me locate some of my Christmas cheer. It’s for you. It’s always for you, and Jamie always insists on having that little fibre-optic tree you bought for him the year you died. He puts it up in his room and in his own words, ‘it’s like having a piece of Nanna with me’. For a boy who wasn’t even two when you died, that’s immensely touching.
This year’s not been without its highs and lows, but when you do an annual letter, you start to realise that’s not so unusual. I’m hoping it’ll end on a high, because I’m quite fed up of being sad. Some stuff happened over the last twelve months that’s really dented my sense of self-confidence and it’s a hard thing to come back from… but I’m trying.
But… I will put a smile on my face and work through today, as I’ve done every year since December 10th, 2000. For the people around me it’s just another day, and that helps to put things into perspective. But for this moment of heart-pouring, of letter writing and communication with memories, it’s just you and me.
Love you, mum. Always did, always will.