Today, 8th July, is the worst of all days; it marks one year since our joyful, hilarious, smart, loving, beautiful boy died.
He is dead.
The daily horror of that thought amplified by the recurrence of this date. Everything around is the same; the blueberries ripening, the sun shines and the birds sing, neighbours work on their gardens, cricket in the park.
It is too horrible to be real. It should not be real. It cannot be real. But it is.
I spent yesterday picking out pictures to pass around at our picnic this evening. Bittersweet memories bring small sparks of happiness remembering our time together, though each spark burns on contract and there’s an urge to recoil and lock them all away. A powerful emotion is building and the body wants to run from it, sink into the anaesthetic distraction of TikTok or television just so that time passes.
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,Macbeth. Always good for a chuckle…
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time
Today we will visit Kip’s grave, introduce him to his baby brother Arlo.
We will sing his favourite songs, tell his favourite jokes and eat his favourite fig rolls.
I will pass pictures around, and remind everyone what he says, what he did, how he lived, and danced, and occupied our hearts.
We will mourn, as we mourn everyday, but today in our tears and our hurt, we will remember that for five short years a small part of the universe manifested itself as our son.