grief – Unravelling My Own Bulls#*t!

I think I got my confidence from you. I’m guessing, ‘cos it doesn’t run through mum’s side of the family. Women on mum’s side are shy, anxious, still strong but worry about the world and what will happen when they’re gone. I have that less, so I guess that may come from you, at least I hope. It comforts me to think I can recognise some of your traits in me.

I’m told you were confident, you could strongly voice your point of view. You weren’t scared to speak up in a crowd and enjoyed a debate or two. Ok, so I can’t quite say that’s me, but what I will say is true, I have a strength and desire to break through this shyness and speak my truth. Maybe I wouldn’t have had that with out you as my dad. Maybe I would just have accepted that this was who I am and sat back.

I like to think It’s from you that inner determination runs through me and I hope now I’m wiser and more confident, you can see that too. I know you loved books, loved to read, poems too. I can definitely say I love the written word too.

I try and remember you from when I was young but the memories are foggy, untrustworthy. Is it a memory or a story I’ve been told about you? I’m unsure. I want them all to be memories but there are only a few of which I’m really sure.

The scent of your roll up tobacco from a Golden Virginia tin box, that you would sit and roll out with, your legs crossed. Dressed in old work jeans but with a shirt that never really seemed to match. Then I remember your smile, when a glimpse of me you’d catch.

I wish my kids got to meet you, damn I wish I had more time with you myself, but my kids would have just flourished with your guiding hand or advice instead. Maybe I would have had more strength to make changes with you by my side but I’ve learnt to harness my own courage and sometimes I just know you are there as my guide.

Almost like you are standing right behind me with a hand on my shoulder, nudging me to be brave, do the hard thing, that’s when I feel you. When I have a choice that is difficult, just willing and whispering in my ear to chose the tough road because that leads to growth and change too.

Telling me to stand strong.

Don’t give up.

Shoulders back, head up and you won’t go wrong.

I’m thankful for the parts of me that are from you. It helps me to feel you are close. Through these rough times I would have loved to have you here with me, to know you were beside me taking care of me but you are within me.

I am your daughter and that is enough ‘cos that means I’m tough!

**Three brothers together, having fun. Jermaine in the middle had cerebral palsy and passed at age 13 years.**

Remember that time you giggled for the first time? Not just laughter but a full on hardcore giggle that was totally infectious and would not stop, for any reason, not at all. I though, stopped in my tracks. Was there something wrong? Were you having a seizure? I panicked. Most kids were laughing a long time ago. Why now? Shit. You just carried on though, full of beans. I waited, not sure how to react. Call an ambulance or giggle too? Slowly hoping, this was you having found your voice, your giggly spot. Then realising, you had! I cried predictably, happy tears, ecstatic tears, to hear my boy, laugh so heartily and enthusiastically, from nowhere. Zero to full throttle in giggles. Perfect. Then I told the world. Everyone I knew. My son laughed. Really laughed though, a proper belly laugh. Amazing!

That was a magical moment.

The joy of seeing you in the hydrotherapy pool. Those tight, contracted muscles, completely relaxed, the strain on your face would disappear and you were at peace with that huge grin lighting up your face, to say to all, this is heavenly, come on in! You communicated very well when you needed too.

Coming to pick you up from primary school not long after you had started, frantically hoping and praying you were ok. Then seeing you all snuggled in to your favourite teaching assistants chest. All cushioned into her bosom, that left mine to shame and you snoring away loudly, happily and contentedly. Not a care in the world. There you were telling me, its pretty good here mum.

Or the memories that give me the most joy of you and your two brothers. One, kissing you, the other wrapped around your legs. One holding your hand, the other wiping your chin. The three of you, just so in sync. They helped you when you were uncomfortable, repositioned you, sat you forward, talked to you and reassured you. You would look around searching for them and talk right back at them. Shouting when they needed it. You would give as good as you got. No it didn’t make sense, your sounds were unique but to the three of you, there was understanding and love. That memory is my favourite. What you taught and gave to your brothers in love and compassion and what they in return gave you was incredibly special to watch, as your mum.

So many magical memories I treasure.

But mostly I remember the feel of your hair, the sound of your voice and the light, mischief and strength of your spirit. I was so incredibly lucky to be your mum. Truly.

Thanks for choosing me.

Love ya!

Memories – Maroon 5. Remembering my boy Jermaine, who passed away 15 years ago today at age 13. Remembering the magical memories.

Tag: grief

A little like you…

Magical Memories