Deathaversary No.13

Deathaversaries are weird. I used to think that every year, like clockwork, I'd spend some time dwelling and feeling, writing, maybe a few tears. Reflecting. Grieving.

It turns out, some years we are Busy. Too Busy To Mourn. Life goes on, and at bedtime maybe we feel a little guilty for not... feeling more, this year?

13 years since we put my dad's body in a guitar-print coffin, ordered from colourfulcoffins.com. Add to cart. What a surreal transaction.

13 years since I read a reading that meant f*** all to any of us, because we were too shocked to have a proper think about which readings he might have liked.

13 years since Christmas presents he had ordered started arriving at our house in the weeks after he had died. My poor mama.

I returned to school the day after we had made the journey back from Devon. Wednesday morning. Philosophy of Religion. Mr Taylor singled me out in the class and asked, "Serena, what do you think happens when we die?". I remember - vividly remember - thinking, "you m*****f*****" 😅. I don't know if he had got the memo 🙈.

I remember feeling so embarrassed about the tremble in my voice when I replied.

I was supposed to be confident, always, like my daddy taught me.

Life went on. Life goes on. Some years it really is easier! And some years it's harder.

There are always good times to live for. There are always *living* people to hug and cherish and confide in and laugh with until your cheeks hurt.

Thank goodness for that.

That's all I have for this year. Another brain dump from a Too Busy To Mourn mother of little ones asking for their noses to be wiped and their teeth to be brushed. My father's grandchildren.