The Wind in the Willows

I would lay flowers on the grave, if I could. You would like that, wouldn't you? You might be a little surprised... but you shouldn't be. You know I'll always put all my effort into making you happy.

And that's why it happened, isn't it?

I'm standing by the willow that lies by the grave, talking to you. I know you can't hear me, but I'm talking anyway. Besides, it sometimes feels as if you can hear me. The wind in the willow sends whispers that remind me of you. They sound like your voice. I wish I could hear it one more time – maybe I'll have a chance, someday. When we meet again.

I lay my hand on the twisted trunk of the willow. I knock on it gently, but it doesn't make a noise. I suppose I don't have the strength anymore. Not now, after I've lost you.

Gazing out to sea, I feel the sea breeze on my face and remember when I used to love it. There was a time when I looked towards the waves and saw fun. Laughter. Excitement. A time when the sea made me feel free, unstoppable – alive. How ironic.

Now all that's left is the same emotion I felt while it was happening.

You were standing on this cliff, with your hand on the willow like mine is now. I walked up to you from behind and stood close, as close as conflicted love and caution could bring me.

You looked at me with those smiling eyes of yours, and gently shuffled closer. It wasn't long before my caution broke, my arms went around you, and – oh heaven.

You looked down off the cliff to the water below and asked me if I wanted to jump. I was horrified, bemused, frantically worried, until you told me it was safe. That you'd done it before, and survived. It was invigorating, you said. A thrill I'd never forget. More irony.

The thought of losing you to the sea, in two different senses, was both my driving force and what held me back. You wanted so badly to share it with me, I knew I wouldn't refuse. Even though the sight of the waves crashing against the bottom of the chalk cliff petrified me, I knew I would do it, because that was what you wanted.

So I steeled myself and watched you jump. Watched you stretch your arms over your head and point your toes like a ballerina. Watched you dive in with grace and bravery.

Watched the waves and waited for you to come back up.

I jumped in after you. Arms flailing, falling feet first, but I didn't care; I just wanted to make sure you were alright. The water engulfed me as if it had been waiting for all of existence to find me.

Both of us went down that night. Only one came up.

The hospital was a horrible place. I was so glad to see the back of it. I expect we both were... but I can't speak for you. I never heard your opinion on it.

I walk through the graveyard, surrounding by willows that whisper with your voice, and look at the graves of the others.

There's Lily, fresh flowers on her grave. Lilies, of course. Her parents won't settle for anything less than the freshest. They too have that feeling that the one they've lost is still there, that she can still hear them when they bend over her grave and cry, whispering to her. Asking for one more day with their precious baby. At her birth, everyone predicted the mother would die to give life to Lily. And every time she visits, the mother wishes desperately for it to have been the other way around.

How would Lily feel if she knew they were celebrating the birth of their new child now. Would she pleased with them, or would she feel forgotten? Would she like that they named their new baby Daisy, or would she be upset knowing that every time they look at their girl they're reminded of the one who died?

They tell her everything, every time they come. Every time I visit your favourite willow tree, they're by her grave. Whispering to her as I am now, to you.

And there's Ronnie. Poor kid. Run over by a car. Did he mean to? His family comes every Monday, every Friday. It breaks my heart to hear his little sister wailing like she did as a baby three years ago. The parents blame themselves. They say they never paid enough attention to him, never gave him enough of what he wanted. It's always that way.

Ronnie's best friend was with him when he did it. He tried to get between Ronnie and the car, to sacrifice his life for him. He's one of the family, now. But I can't blame Ronnie's sister for wishing he had died instead of her brother.

The parents spoil their little girl now. They give her everything she wants – except the one thing she needs, the one thing they can't give her. Her big brother.

The last grave, the one nearest the graveyard entrance – or the exit, depending on your point of view. I always call it the entrance; only half who come here ever come out.

I wish I could see you again. I wish I could visit you more often, but everything seems to fit more into your schedule than mine. The wind in your willow only bring me your voice at certain times of day, and not everyday either. Sometimes, I'm sure it's you. Just like the wind in the willows over each other grave whispers at different times.

Sometimes, I'll catch them all at the same time. They're beautiful, the voices from the other side. And sometimes, I stop and wonder.

Which side really is the wrong side of the grave?

I pause just inside the graveyard's boundary. I don't want to leave just yet.

I need you to know that I'm okay. It's true, I haven't moved on yet. But I will. Don't worry about me – you should focus on yourself.

You still have the rest of your life to live.