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A year without you

30 May 2012

Liefie,

I went to Malvern yesterday. In the glorious sunshine, I walked up British Camp and then up to the top of The Beacon. You are always everywhere in Malvern. Even if I don't think about you specifically, you are always with me in that place. It is the place where you became You. Or maybe it is much more relevant for me than it ever was for you. Would that matter?

I don't feel a need to tell you what has happened this year. Either you already know or you have no way of knowing. In both cases, I would be wasting my time. Of course I know you have no way of knowing. You can't know. You no longer exist. It is a weird concept to wrap my hear around. All that is left of our hopes and dreams, all our plans, all our love, all our shared history; all that is left is a green plastic pot with a kilo of ashes.

I guess I should write a coherent post about how I feel a year after your death. Truth is, this day is only significant in a sense of: Time flies. I don't feel more sad today. I felt sad yesterday. When I thought about your last 24 hours.

As time goes on, my love for you changes. How can it not? You no longer love me back. I guess I miss you as my best friend now. I miss you a lot. I miss your friendship, I miss our shared history, I miss the things we used to do and talk about.

Some of those things I now do with Girlfriend because that's what people do in relationships. Other things I clearly only did with you. These things I still miss very much. Because I will never do them with someone else in the same way as I did them with you. Because they were specifically our things.

I have found my way back to life and to love. In 2005, you wrote me a letter before your surgery. You instructed me to be happy again if something were to go wrong. It took 6 more years for things to go very wrong. But I think your words were as valid then as they were when you first wrote them down. I am happy again. But I am no longer as careless and carefree about love and about life. Nothing is taken for granted. Your death has left my life covered with a thin veil of grey. It used to be a thick wooly blanket of grey. Now it is a thin veil. I think that will be as good as it gets. It is thin enough to let love and happiness through. It doesn't stop me from feeling, from laughing, from loving. But I will always know it's there.

I miss you. I wish you were still here to see what I am doing with my life. You would be proud of me. And you would be happy for me. I wouldn't be what I am becoming had it not been for you. (And yes, you would admonish me for the bad grammar of that sentence.)

m

1 comments:

Anonymous said...

Your grammar's awesome.

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