9 years on - we remember with joy

Here's my offering for March - it's a hard one to write.?

As 9 years ago this month my husband died suddenly at work.

His favourite word was Joy, which is also my daughter's middle name.?

It is with joy I remember him.?

Keeping memories alive

I was once married. He was like a junior Robert Redford with bright blue eyes. As I write this my heart stops and I pause in a kaleidoscope of memories. Like when I first met him and he talked so eloquently about the difference between being a dad and a father. I have always tried to stay in the happy memories section of grief as it’s pointless trying to ask why. I don’t want to curdle any of the good stuff we had together.

I remember looking at his profile as he sang in church. He used to raise his arms. I used to think he’s too beautiful to be real. I felt incredibly lucky to have him and used to think rather ludicrously I should plant him and give a cutting to my single friends so they could also have someone as beautiful as him.

Nine years on. My waist still hasn’t forgotten the way his arms would circle me as I cooked. My shoulders still remember the way his arms rested on me. I don’t remember his smell - it lasted a few weeks and then disappeared in the ether after his passing, I look again our children’s faces and and I can see him. I still remember his mobile. 07968 625634. In the early days I’d listen to his answerphone message whenever I wanted to hear his voice.

So 9 years on … What do I hold on to? I weave his beliefs into new narratives where I can bring his memory into what I do. That way he still lives. I’m sometimes tired of missing him and think I also miss the arguments. And now laugh at the memory of doing v signs under the duvet when he drove me to distraction.

And how I would encourage him to wear THAT jumper - the ugliest of colours when he would go to meet ups when I had to work my night shifts , just so he wouldn’t catch the eye of another. Because he was mine.

I work hard to live on because my kids will one day have children and he was always the grandpa in waiting. He will never walk his daughter up the aisle. Nor will he make the father of the groom speech. I will do it for him. And for me.

Grief is like a thorn in your side. Sometimes it presses and you take a sharp intake of breath. But there are times when the pain pauses, and you can take deep breaths. As the years pass these times happen more but one never forgets and I don’t want to either.