When you have had a very sad thing happen in your life, it is going to come back at you, sometimes. You’ll go through the first few years after it, looking at the world through it, filtered by it, as if the sad thing is a piece of coloured glass you look through, that informs all light with its particular shade.
The glass doesn’t go away. What happens, in time, over years, is that your brain readjusts and you become able to tell red from green again. Yellows look as bright as they ever were. The sun shines on you, you forget that you view the world through that piece of coloured glass at all.
And then something unexpectedly reminds you, and it’s as keen as being cut. For a day or two, you realise that your experience of life is knocked out of kilter by this thing. You remember the world before. You can feel it: the angles in you that differ from other people’s angles. The different wind that blows through you, constantly. When you lie down, all the wrong bones dig in. When you sleep, all the doors you press firmly shut while you’re awake spring open and a great flock of sorrows burst out. You wake up with them stuck in your hair, bruised by them, carrying their incredible weight, and when you wake, you flap your way along the waterline like an oiled bird, no good for air, no good for the sea. Lost, at home.
Then you remember the skills you have learnt over the last few years, and you stand back up and pop the bones back where they should be – ish – and look up at the sky, and let your vision go back to what’s normal, now.
And it’s ok again. Sort of.
I miss you.