The sun seemed to shine just a little brighter this morning on my early train into work and it reminded me of when I last heard your voice five years ago, you were laid in your hospice bed mothering me to eat breakfast. I don't remember you speaking again after this, but shortly afterwards you slipped into a coma. I would never hear your voice again, or be mothered.
The sun shone brightly that day to, but the appalling shadow cast by your loss has often since felt overwhelming and prevented me from enjoying the most simple of things without you. Unbeknown to me, on this day in 2010, my heart would splinter and the foundations of my life would crumble.
Five years on, I still feel a profound sense of grief over your death. I mourn the loss of your protectiveness, loyalty, encouragement, praise, warmth and laughter. I still grieve also for what could have been. The constant stinging disbelief and the all-consuming missing have gone though and I accept that you have died.
This will, therefore, be the last public memorial as I no longer need to remind people of how much we loved each other or that you deserve to be missed or remembered. I remember you everyday and that is enough. I think of you each time that I look in the mirror and see your face in mine, the same with the children. We talk about you often. I may never hear your voice again, but you speak to me often. I am getting better at listening to you and take immense comfort from that. I don’t feel quite so alone.
Always and forever. Mini xx
C LEWIS
02/09/2015