First the worst

Apparently the firsts are the worst. The first birthday - theirs and yours - the first Christmas, the first wedding anniversary, the first anniversary of their death, etc etc.... I think I disagree. Or I guess it's not disagreeing. It's just that that statement implies that the seconds are somehow better. I don't think they are. Do people not realise that although the raw-ness may subside, that special person is still missing from that special day? What could be worse than that? Surely the more you endure, the worse it gets? The more you're reminded of the time that's passed since the last time that date was last a happy date. In fact, none of the anniversaries are worse than the other. They are all equally as difficult, and equally as hard.

Tomorrow is T's birthday. It's absolutely gut-wrenching to not have bought a card and presents. Or to have made a cake. Planned a celebration. It's just going to be a 'normal' day. I can't celebrate without T. I can think about him and those happy birthdays we've celebrated together. But that's about it. I have to go to work. I have a meeting for a voluntary job I've undertaken at the local theatre in the evening. Life goes on. Incredibly sad but incredibly true. It really is incredible to think that life does go on. How does it go on? How do we muster up the strength and the resilence to make it go on? We're broken inside, but on the outside - to the hundreds of people that will pass me on the street tomorrow, sit next to me on the train, queue beside me for my coffee - I'm whole. Incredible how well we can hide it. And if people don't know to look for it, they just won't see it.

How could she walk? 

How could she move?

That's the sort of thing I'll never know, or comprehend - what humans are capable of.

(An extract from 'The Book Thief' by Markus Zusak, narrated by Death and very worthy of a read.)

This week has been strange. I can only think it's because I'm back at work and finally have something big to distract me, so my mind gets caught up in work then when it allows itself to refocus on life, it momentarily forgets what's happened. Today as I walked the length of the concourse at Waterloo during the morning rush hour, I found myself scanning the faces of the commuters walking towards me. It dawned on me that I was searching for T. Searching for that beacon of hope and love and light in that sea of strangers. He wasn't there. Then at work today I glanced at my phone. Noticed the date: 15 September. Shit! I haven't planned T's birthday. Haven't got his present or made his cake. Then that realisation again. There's no point. No need. No T.

The firsts aren't the worst. They are just different. And I'll think of T tomorrow; 35 years ago to the day since he entered the world. That innocent little bundle of joy. He didn't deserve this to happen to him. Tomorrow should be a happy day. It's not fair.