The river of grief

Every year I write a post similar to this one – a reminder to myself perhaps, a memory, an acknowledgement of time, a way of saying I remember, a way of coping, dealing, finding somewhere to put the pain. So if you’ve followed me since the beginning, I’m sorry to drag you through this again – another year – another reminder of mortality and of the fact that no matter what, life goes on.

We live and we love and we feel important but it’s through death that we realise that we matter so little, in the bigger sense of things.

The world keeps on going.

People move on.

They forget and suddenly, the legend, is just a memory.

Except to the ones at the heart. The ones who feel that pain deeper with every passing year. The memories we make that we can never share. The life experience, the goals met, the children born, the countries moved – it’s that living that you will never share, never laugh over, never ask for opinions and advice on. It’s the pictures you can’t show. The holidays you can’t plan.

It’s knowing your son has no memory of, no afinity for, the person whose loss has left you broken. It’s that gap. That ever widening gap that grows to make room for the river of grief.

I miss you dad. I miss you more than these words can say.