27 MARCH
1.50PM
I read somewhere that keeping a journal can help with the grieving process. Every time I have a thought about you, or something happens that reminds me of you, I’m supposed to write it down.
Well, today was meant to be the day of our final goodbye, so you were always going to be the only thing on my mind.
It was just you and me left in the hall. But I couldn’t even, for the very last time, see your face and kiss you on the cheek. My silence was broken by a long, unpunctuated message I received from whom I assumed was the lorry driver. I stared at a ceiling light, like I always have to when I want to feel clean, doing what you and Mum used to call one of my funny little quirks.
But your casket wasn’t even in a straight line. I needed the release, I needed to find its correct position. If I didn’t then I couldn’t be clean again.
I wheeled you until your casket was parallel with the back window. But then the flowers on top weren’t in balance with the lectern, so I rearranged them to make sure the pinks and purples didn’t touch. I looked down and I found myself clicking my fingers, trying to find the right pattern which would stop me feeling like there was a tumour growing in my head.
And in that second I noticed I was no longer alone. It was you.
I don’t know how but you were stood at the lectern. You were dressed in black and your hair was up and your mouth was moving as if you were talking, but no sound came out. Then you stopped, and stared at the back of the hall.
I fell into a seat. You were in the casket. I had helped carry you in myself. The violence of what had happened to you was in there. But you looked so young. You were skinnier and smaller somehow, with a rounder face.
And I knew, right then, that I had seen you like this before.
Five years ago at Mum’s funeral. You caught me sneaking in late and I had to stand at the back. You’d spotted me and welled up and you couldn’t get your words out. And now I was seeing you go through it again.
And just like that you were gone.
I grabbed at the air where I’d seen you. I looked at the casket, at the flowers on top. I went to look inside, but the thought of what I would see made me cold and weak.
Outside there was a sea of people in black. I walked through the mulls and murmurs. A man with a big collar said sorry for my loss. The undertaker, Mr Sparrow – the same one we had for Mum – asked if I was ready to head to the wake.
But all I could say was, – I saw her. I just saw Alexis in the hall.
And all he could say back was, – I’m not sure you should tell anyo
