REMEMBERING JAMES (A true story)
Posted: Wed Sep 06, 2006 11:45 pm
When I look back over my life, the memories I have stretch back into the past like links of a chain. Each link is a vivid picture, some good, some bad, but all of them are part of what I am today.
If I choose to look back down that chain, the thing that strikes me the most forcefully is how the most joyful memories stand out like patches of sunshine and gild over the bad moments. Sun on the links of my chain which stretches back over 59 years.
I remember a wooden horse that my Dad made for me when I was about 4 years old. I remember a cowgirl outfit that my Mum made when I was 5. I remember school discos and best friends, and I remember the birth of my first child as if it were yesterday.
When I was 35, I gave birth to twins. A boy and a girl, perfect golden babies, tiny and infinitely precious. Most of my memories since then are of them, their first steps, their first day at school, and mostly, their pure enjoyment of life and their laughter.
Then, just 6 years ago, my 18 year old son drowned, and for a while I thought that neither I or my daughter would ever get over his loss. But one of my clearest memories of their chilhood is of sitting on a beach while they brought me pebbles from the edge of the sea.
Cupped in small wet hands, the pebbles shone with vivid colours until they dried in the sun, when they became just dull grey stones. We still took home pocketfuls of those stones, maybe because each one held the memory of when it had been a jewel, and we placed them round our pond in the hopes that one day they would become jewel-like again.
Grief is like that. A hard lump of grey that cannot be parted with, because beneath the surface it holds the memory of joy. Losing a child is like giving birth to one, you remember the pain, but with time you forget how bad that pain was, and the rewards far outweigh the griefs.
To remember James only in grief would be a denial of the joy that his life gave. I never mourn him without also thinking that for eighteen years I had the privilege of being his mother. His sister, Amy, misses him for different reasons. For 18 years they were half of a pair. They fought, made up and supported each other every day, and his death leaves a great void in her life. We have cried together, but mostly we laugh together. It is hard to think of James without laughter, the two were inextricably linked.
The links of my chain shine in the sunshine of my son's smile, as one day my daughter's will, with her son's.
Sleep tight James. We love you.
If I choose to look back down that chain, the thing that strikes me the most forcefully is how the most joyful memories stand out like patches of sunshine and gild over the bad moments. Sun on the links of my chain which stretches back over 59 years.
I remember a wooden horse that my Dad made for me when I was about 4 years old. I remember a cowgirl outfit that my Mum made when I was 5. I remember school discos and best friends, and I remember the birth of my first child as if it were yesterday.
When I was 35, I gave birth to twins. A boy and a girl, perfect golden babies, tiny and infinitely precious. Most of my memories since then are of them, their first steps, their first day at school, and mostly, their pure enjoyment of life and their laughter.
Then, just 6 years ago, my 18 year old son drowned, and for a while I thought that neither I or my daughter would ever get over his loss. But one of my clearest memories of their chilhood is of sitting on a beach while they brought me pebbles from the edge of the sea.
Cupped in small wet hands, the pebbles shone with vivid colours until they dried in the sun, when they became just dull grey stones. We still took home pocketfuls of those stones, maybe because each one held the memory of when it had been a jewel, and we placed them round our pond in the hopes that one day they would become jewel-like again.
Grief is like that. A hard lump of grey that cannot be parted with, because beneath the surface it holds the memory of joy. Losing a child is like giving birth to one, you remember the pain, but with time you forget how bad that pain was, and the rewards far outweigh the griefs.
To remember James only in grief would be a denial of the joy that his life gave. I never mourn him without also thinking that for eighteen years I had the privilege of being his mother. His sister, Amy, misses him for different reasons. For 18 years they were half of a pair. They fought, made up and supported each other every day, and his death leaves a great void in her life. We have cried together, but mostly we laugh together. It is hard to think of James without laughter, the two were inextricably linked.
The links of my chain shine in the sunshine of my son's smile, as one day my daughter's will, with her son's.
Sleep tight James. We love you.
