Dragon's Bread, Thistles and Just Holding On

Dear Erin,

I told your the story again today. It's not your story, even though it is a story of you. I can't start thinking like that. Maybe you saw me? BBC Breakfast, no less! If you'd have asked me a year ago why I thought I’d be on there, I would have said - God knows - doing a bloody charity walk, or singing on a novelty Christmas single, or something. Not this.

Me and you, love. We’ll never be known for what we were.

They were gentle with it, mind. I got tea beforehand - shouldn’t have had it, I was busting for a wee the whole time. They told me I had two whole minutes to talk, which is ages in telly time. They didn't even give the Chancellor of the Exchequer two uninterrupted minutes on the last budget, so there’s that. 

Before I had to do it, I’d never have thought it was possible to boil the most unfathomable, inconceivable event of my life down to less than two minutes. But I reassured the producers – I’ve told it so many times now. Don’t you worry about me. Didn’t even take the tissues they offered me. What must they think?

That tale I keep telling again and again - those are words that I need to say. I can just see you with your hands bunched up at your face in embarrassment, but what with the Bill due to be passed, right now, everybody wants to hear it, don't they? And it has to be from me. It’s compelling - I get it.

But when I try and think about you - it’s like midges on a summer evening. It’s too much, love. I need to sort out my thoughts, and I need you to know how I feel. So I’m sitting here with this pen and this paper, finding my way. Your death might be a script to me now, but I’ll never let that happen to your life, my love.

I made a list (proper project manager thing to do) of everything I’ve got of you, in order of how much it tells me about you:

• Photos and videos on the family Google (100%)
• Your notebooks age 6-11, until we got you a phone (100%)
• What we’ve written, e.g. eulogy (80%)
• Photos, videos and recollections from other people (50%)
• Your phone and social media accounts (0% - still can’t get in)

But I want as much as possible as only I can remember it. If I don’t get it now, it’ll disappear. So maybe it is that I have to go out every day, say the same blunt words over and over, tread that same path. But I won’t let those footsteps crush the wildflowers that grew in the meadow which was nurtured by your beautiful life.

I still don’t know where to begin.

I’ll write again soon.

All my love, always,

Mam

***

Dear Erin,

I’ve been thinking about where to start. Makes sense to look for the things I might lose the easiest. I reckon that’s when you were a baby. Everything was changing so fast back then. And, let’s be honest, I was knackered.

It’s mad, isn’t it? One minute, you were still enough for me to leave you sleeping on the sofa. Next, you were off - bolting across the kitchen towards me.

I wish I’d asked you, even once, what your first memory was. Now I can only guess.

You were an easygoing baby. By day, mind. I used to watch you extra close, just to make sure I was paying attention to what you wanted, because you were so happy with anything. I worried about that. Worried you’d get taken advantage of, ‘cause you’d just let other babies grab stuff right out of your hands.

I used to sit your bouncer in front of the fridge freezer while I was cooking, and you’d kick yourself off the door, back and forth, laughing your head off. You loved looking at the postcards stuck to it, so I started swapping them out just to see if you noticed. And you always noticed. You were only a few months old, but I swear you knew when they’d changed.

But then, as you got older, I could hardly get you to concentrate. Every single parent in Ystrad Mynach Park knew who you were, ‘cause I was always yelling, Erin! Erin! ERIN! Used to wonder if that leonine mane blocked your ears. Took you to Specsavers for a hearing test once, but they laughed at me. “She could hear a pin drop in Llandudno,” they said. You were just a wild one.

My heart would just go when I watched you play with your hands to get to sleep, as if you were trying to find something to hold. I remember all the things you let fall through your fingers when you just plain forgot you were holding them: daisies, bark, teddies, crayons, cups of water, my hands…

But God, you were playful. Couldn’t take you anywhere without making friends. And then I’d have to wait half an hour while you said goodbye like you were going off to war. People, animals, you didn’t care. Couldn’t get you away from the dogs! Didn’t matter if it was a chihuahua or a massive great thing - straight over you’d go, arms out, no fear.

Even food couldn’t escape you, you insatiable connector. Took you years to use a knife and fork properly. Up until then, they were just little stick people for you to tell stories with at dinner.

You waged a war against every instinct I had to get things done. By day, I’d be project managing at the factory. By night, I was welcomed into this meditative, wonderful, nothing-needs-a-purpose dream world with you. You hated the idea of “plans.” If you thought I was doing something, it’d wind you right up. So, we just lived.

I’ve spent all night writing this. My heart’s full, but I’m a mess. How do I hold onto what I think I might forget? It takes me so long to get it all down; you lived instantaneously.

They’ve offered to meet with me, you know. With lawyers present. Even so, they’re going to look me in the eye and they’re actually going to say something. 

I don’t know if I’ll go.

But what more damage could they do?

All my love, always,

Mam

***

Dear Erin,

I don’t know what I expected from them.

The CEO didn’t turn up. Sent two of his lot instead - one with a pudgy, honest sort of face, good talker, smooth as you like. The other one had the kindest eyes I’ve ever seen. Even kinder words.

And yet, somehow, it was the lowest I’ve felt since losing you.

It’s incredible, isn’t it? What they think I should endure from them. They sat there, nodded, leaned in all soft and grave. Said how deeply sorry they were. They looked me in the eye and sat comfortably in their seats.

I said, “Don't waste my time with that.”

Then they have the right to say I've not been reasonable.

I'd never have faced up to people like that before, but you’re keeping me together, somehow. The ache of missing you, the swirling sadness of thinking about you, the cwtch of having nothing worse to lose - it’s holding me, stopping all the atoms of me flying off into the night.

We’ve still got the Bill going to parliament. And I’ve still got you.

If you were here, you’d help me now. I was so lucky to have you. Every day after you turned thirteen, even though there weren’t many to speak of, you were alive to my feelings. Back when I had other feelings, and you were alive.

I remember the time at Parc Penallta, pond-dipping, and that tiny frog just jumped onto your hand. So many kids would have screamed or flapped or run away, but you? You just went still. Took this tiny breath in, held it so gentle, looked at it like it was the most amazing thing in the world.

And your jewellery. When I taught you how to make resin jewellery, you didn’t even hesitate - you started up a gifts factory. I ended up buying so much resin, I think I near enough kept Hengoed Crafts in business. I still keep finding little things in resin around the house: leaves, seashells, little drawings, sprinkles, tiny figurines, dice from games (that I thought got lost!!!), other objects I didn't even recognise, but which had clearly fascinated you.

And that time we went up Bannau Brycheiniog? Freezing bloody cold, I thought I’d sent us on a fool’s errand. Thought you and Dad would never forgive me. But then I saw your eyes. The way your fingers brushed over the bracken. I knew that moment would become something later. I could always tell when you were creating, and true to form you made me those frost-bracken earrings. Couldn’t find them the other day. Lost it, like I’d lost you all over again.

Do you remember when I found you in your room, watching that candle? Trying to capture its flicker, its wisps of smoke. I knew what you were doing but Christ, was I furious at the time. I thought that was the most dangerous thing you could have in there.

Wish I’d been right.

That’s enough of that.

You had so much grit. When we went on the bluebell walk, you insisted on running through the field with your bare feet, even though we told you not to. You pretended so hard not to be hurt after you trod on the thistle, and I pretended not to notice you wincing with every step.

Maybe that was the moment when I released myself from the worry of life being too much for you. I stopped worrying so much about the thistles. I stopped worrying about your wild ideas, like running barefoot through a field.

Perhaps I’m not in the right place for this, tonight.

I knew those awful people would refuse to break the app open for me. Knew it. But some little part of me thought - maybe if they saw me, if I explained, if I asked them - maybe, they’d help.

But they’re inhuman. They let death loose into the world with a hashtag, make their money, and go home.

It’s not your fault. We all failed you.

All my love, always,

Mam

***

Dear Erin,

I love you. And I’m really trying. 

I love you more than anything, and I need to make things right. But even my greatest tragedy isn’t enough to stop them.

The government’s watered down the Bill. “More research needed,” apparently. What they mean is, let’s put 50,000 words between us and a decision. 

Imagine hearing this, from where I’m standing: “This debate is only just getting started.”

Well. Not for us, eh love?

I’m trying to keep going.

So I’m focusing on what’s in front of me. Project remembrance, not project changing the law.

I’ve been retracing your steps. Trying to go to the places you went, do the things you did. Stand like you, fidget like you - God, you could fidget - even just breathe like you. Anything to jog the hidden memories, before they disappear.

You used to put your cheek on the car window to feel the cool.

You’d always lose things that were in your hand. If you’d lived long enough to need glasses (and let’s be honest, with our genes, you definitely would have needed them), you’d have lost them on top of your head.

You gave everyone in your phone a silly name and an emoji. I remember when you thought up “The Juggler” for me - you ran downstairs just to tell me, laughing so hard you could barely get the words out. And somehow, even at thirteen, you’d completely seen me - my ambition, my skill, my ridiculousness.

You used to put a ‘z’ on the end of everything just because you knew it annoyed me.

You ate marmalade and strawberry jam in stripes on toast and called it “dragon’s bread”. I eat the bloody stuff every day now, Erin, and it’s all your fault.

I miss you. And even after a year, I still don’t know how to be in this world, even be in my own head, without you.

The story - that dreadful story - is all I’ve had to make a change. How can it not be enough? I’ve heard other people say “it’s not enough” more times than I can count, but Christ, it hits different when you’re the one slamming into that wall.

Over, and over, and over again.

And if words are not enough, then there’s not much left, is there? I’ve got to do something.

Reckon I'll ask to meet up again. The CEO this time.

All my love, always,

Mam