When someone dies, someone you love, you discover the news of their death more than once.
The first time is a telephone call; a knock at the door. Eyes averted and euphemisms, ‘gone’, ‘passed away’ and ‘in his sleep’. And you’re reeling. Can’t quite . . . how . . . . And what you’re left with is a feeling of having no control. A terrible, dull sense of finality.
A few days later you sleep heavily. Finally. After days of phone calls, ‘arrangements’, ‘preparations’ and crying, comes sleep. And in the morning for a few blessed seconds your mind gives you peace, only to rake it back again like the sea dragging back stones. Realisation comes hard like a fist.
And three years later you’re sat in a taxi. It’s late but the roads are busy with football traffic. The driver is talking about the match, “United won then”. I smile and think about you. Somewhere in a North Wales pub, celebrating. I search my mind for the number to text. And realisation walks in again. Is sat beside me in the taxi, stealing the air.
When someone dies, someone you love, you discover the news of their death more than once.
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