Happy Birthday, Aunt

Dear Aunt

It is your birthday today, 11th November, and for the first time since I lost you, I do not wish you were here. I try and place you in the world now, and I can’t. Everyone is so busy and impatient and stressed. I am pleased that I don’t have to worry about people jostling you in the supermarket or pushing in front of you on the bus. I still remember when you told me about that girl who asked you where the milk was in Marks & Spencer as she stole your purse with your bus pass in and I can’t breathe properly.

I am pleased you can’t see how scared Buddy is of Bonfire night, even after I played him that recording you got me of fireworks, quietly for months, to try and get him used to them. I am pleased you won’t get trick or treaters, leaflet droppers, nuisance callers. I am pleased that I am not worried if you have your heating on. If you locked your doors.

I miss your voice. Your phone number is a musical beat in my head, like that rhyme we were taught at school to learn crochets and quavers. Eight, seven three, six seven nine. My feet remember every crack in your crazy paving. The creak of your back gate. The little china bell that housed the spare key.

I still dream of you. I dream, that you made it out of hospital, but I forgot. I dream that you are still here, and I’ve not visited you. I dream of people moving into your house. Of walking in the field behind your bungalow. At night you come back to me, and I lose you again in the morning. There is a poem about the art of loss not being hard to master, but I do not agree. I will never get the knack of this grief.

And so, I am trying to place you amongst my favourite things. Crunchy leaves the colour of sunsets and conkers. The first frost. A fruitcake made by an old lady for a church fundraiser, perfectly ripe and sweet. My morning cup of tea (Yes, I miss that dented tray with the roses on, the rich tea fingers, yes, always). I am trying to tuck you inside the pages of my favourite books, among characters that can keep you company in the parallel world you share. I liked to think of you going on adventures in a safari hat, back in time with Sherlock, jumping into hansom cabs.

I am trying to crochet you into decorations for Christmas trees. To press you into the soil I plant with. I am trying to grow you from a pinecone I found. I gave your sewing box to Grace for her textiles course. She takes you, in safety pins and delicate thread, on the bus and to the park. She sews you into patterns, buttons you up.

I wear your cardigan when I am cold, your spare purse is my purse now. You are with me, and you are not, and I am pleased, and I am devastated. I want to climb backwards towards you. I want to be seven again, watering your plants and dropping seeds into small pots and watching Tom and Jerry on your swirly sofa. I want you to be able to fix my problems with sandwiches passed through the serving hatch. I want to ring your phone, your bell, your name into the silence, but I can’t. And you would not want me to. This world is no longer yours but it still mine.

And so, I fold you into a napkin, keep you in my pocket. Remember your favourite things, birdsong and Ruth Rendell and Air on a G String by Bach. Swimming in the slow lane. Jacket potatoes at garden centre cafes. The joy of sitting down after a long day. A dog wagging a happy tail. Squirrels up trees. Sunny afternoons under a brolly. Rain after a dry spell. Posh socks. I keep you pinned to me like this as I carry on walking forwards.

Happy birthday aunt. I miss you.