“It's funny, the day you lose someone isn't the worst -at least you've got something to do- it's all the days they stay dead.”
Today is your birthday.
You would have been 96. A friend recently told me that they didn’t like it when people referred to lost loved ones that way, because they wouldn’t have been that age now, that’s the whole point. They didn’t make it there. I was thinking about this as I walked around the lake near my house this morning. You were 88 when you left us, just turned. You didn’t make it to 96, but what a long and beautiful legacy to leave behind.
I speak to you in my head all the time. I wonder if you heard me this morning? I turned the corner out of the woody glade by the lake and a little robin hopped by my feet. I’d just asked you if you were here, if you were listening. It stared at me for a few moments before bobbing away into a tree. Robins are said to be messengers from those we have lost. Did you send him to me? A lot of people would think I’m crazy for thinking that but I know you wouldn’t. You always used to ask your mother to show you where something had gone if you had lost it, and it always worked - she always came to the rescue and you’d think of where the item was, even though she’d left you many years before. I think you do the same for me.
Today, the sky is pure, incandescent azure. The sun is absolutely scorching. It’s way too hot for my liking, and I suddenly realised that I couldn’t remember if you loved summer, or if you preferred autumn like me. There’s so much I took for granted, so much I didn’t ask. Is it that I don’t remember, or did I never know? I said goodbye to you at 18, but I feel like I should have known better. I should have noted down, filed away, and memorised everything about you. Maybe so much time has passed that I’m losing the little parts of you.
As I watched the birds flit in and out of the trees, I wondered how much of myself I got from you. Sometimes I feel like I spent more of my childhood in your presence than anywhere else. Do I get my resilience from your ‘keep buggering on’ attitude? Does my love of make-up come from watching you apply it every day without fail because you thought that you must always look ‘presentable’? Does my obsession with Doctor Who mean so much more to me because you always encouraged me and my passions, no matter how weird other people thought they were? Do I still love this show so much because it reminds me of my childhood with you? The first time I caught a glimpse of it was at your house. I still buy the newspapers and TV guides because you used to cut out every mention of Doctor Who and keep them for me scrapbook style.
Is my sweet tooth a product of your always-filled biscuit tin and weekly trips to the local bakery? Or the darker stuff. Do I struggle with how I look because you used to tell me I was fat? I know you only commented because you cared, and you certainly did not help by feeding me A LOT every time I was with you. I forgive you for talking negatively about how I looked because I don’t think you knew any better. I could never love you any less for this.
There are definitely things that are ingrained into me that I’m sure came from you. My love of walking everywhere. Taking apple cider vinegar for ‘health’. Roast dinners on a Sunday. A love for nature and plants, which came later for me, but makes me feel closer to you. You were always amazing in the Garden. I’m sure there are thousands of puzzle pieces that make me into who I am, all influenced by you.
I wonder what you’d think of me now? I think that you would be so proud of me, actually. You kept everything I did, everything I achieved, so I think you’d have had every article I’ve ever written printed out into a book. You would have adored that I wrote *an actual* Doctor Who book, the type of book you would have brought for me all those years ago. The type that I’d sit in your armchair and pore over for hours. I think that you would be proud of where I live, what I do, who my friends are. You’d love that I go to the theatre in London a few times a year and that I live in the same city, but you’d be terrified of me living here too. I’m sure you’d always be warning me to keep safe if you still could.
I would love to sit with you right now, with a few fig rolls and a cup of tea. I’d love to have a proper, grown-up, adult conversation with you about… everything. I’d love to watch Shaun the Sheep with you again because we adored that show so much. I would do anything to have you wake me up with your calls on a Saturday morning, waiting for me with a beautiful fry-up on the table.
There’s so much more to say. I don’t think I will ever be able to say it all.
Happy birthday Aunt Mary.
I will never ever forget you. I will think of you, every fourth of September, forever. It’s my birthday soon and we always celebrated together. I’ll spend the rest of mine celebrating for us both.