Submission 160
Hey Caroline…
Just me again, writing another one of my letters to you. It’s now been three years since you left. Just saying out loud - "three years" - doesn’t compute properly in my head. Three years is, after all, a long time - and it’s supposed to feel as such. But the nature of loss distorts our perception of time. Where once three years would feature many adventures - all of which would be documented into the mind in the vivid colour of the variety of emotions felt within that time - grief has a habit of homogenising our emotions, for the most dominent in any given situation is that of yearning for you to be present.
In the time since this dreaded date last rolled round, there was a festival held in your honour. Those closest to you organised it to represent everything you loved the most to raise money for the greatest causes, all in your name. There was however something about it that seemed to elevate the grief. For the only reason the event happened at all was because you were gone. It underscored the reality that my mind kept cushioning me from with disbelief. There could be no more running from the truth for the sake of sanity preservation. You really were dead. How sad that we only honour people when they’re no longer around to see and feel it. How sad that the worst must happen before we’re motivated to act. If only the motivation to save you had matched the motivation to honour you, I wouldn’t be writing these words, and the festival would never have been necessary.
Unfortunately, attending wasn’t - and isn’t - an option for me; I know you’d have understood. Just a few days afterwards, there was something else you missed. It was something that I and everyone else with half a brain never thought would happen - but it did: football came home. England beat Germany 2-1 in the final of Euro 2022. When that final whistle blew, you were all I could think about. It was an event that was supposed to be happening in your lifetime - but you weren’t here for it. I wanted to scream the news into the ether, as if yelling was the medium for how words could reach you. That’s the thing about grief: when someone you love is absent from the world, the happiest moments are infected by an opposing and proportionate force of sadness. You should’ve been here celebrating with everyone else. That’s how it was supposed to be.
Anniversaries always hit with a force you just cannot prepare for. You just have to buckle down and allow their power to completely devour you, for all the heartache they bring is merely love that can’t be given directly. I don’t think you could’ve possibly imagined the sheer and seemingly endless scale of destruction left in the wake of your departure. If you knew how the pain that once devoured you has multiplied and passed to others, you’d be horrified. I’m so, so sorry we couldn’t prevent that pain from existing in the first place.
Something else you’d hate is the sense of utter pointlessness that’s formed the foundation of life now. For everything feels without purpose, without meaning, without motivation in a world without you. You could never have imagined that - that you were the embodiment of life’s point, purpose, meaning, and motivation to those honoured with loving you. And to be honest, I think it took losing you for many of us to realise it too. I guess grief teaches us the things we should’ve always been fully aware of in life, and torments us knowing we’ll never be able to make amends. I wish you weren’t the one to teach us this.
Your nieces and nephews are growing up quick. They’ve changed so much since you last saw them. It’s something I always knew would happen from the moment you left - but when time does its thing and you see it actually happen, that’s when it really hits. I’ve now seen some of the people you loved the most at an age that you never will. That fact alone profoundly messes with my head. It’s not right at all.
You’re a part of who I am now - a part of so many of us. Whenever I talk to myself in my head, it’s always your voice that speaks back. And just like the song goes: "the part of me that’s you will never die". Your legacy was still being written - but in the end, you just couldn’t keep going to finish writing it yourself. Well, if the last 12 months have showed us anything, it’s that your legacy is in very safe hands indeed. You’d be so incredibly proud of your family and friends. What a thing to say though, aye? The pride we imagine you’d feel is nothing but a disguise: a veil over the empty space you’re supposed to be occupying right now, gazing back and dedicating that same pride to yourself for having made it through hell. I wish we never felt the need to hypothesise about pride. Instead, I wish we just were. As we are in these words, in our hearts, in our minds, for as long as we’re conscious entities of this universe.
We had no chance to say goodbye, and no chance to say hello. But if you can hear and see us, then I want you to know just how sorry we are that we weren’t there when you needed us most. And if you can’t hear or see us, then I guess there’s a blessing or two in that as well.
If only we could go back.
If only we could give you the second chance you deserve.
If only we were together in reality as we are in these words.
If only.
Love you Caroline. More than you’ll ever know.