Round and Round-January

And so it begins, this new year; a year of remembering, of memories, some new, some etched silently
on my soul, scratched with the fingertips of despair; a year of deepening loss, of sorrow upon sorrow and yet....... maybe a slight shift, some small change and, against the odds, some sense of hope...........maybe.
We have decided, Mark's younger brother, Matt, and I, that we will do this year differently; we will acknowledge Mark's death/life/legacy each 21st of the month in a fitting, a connected and a wonderful way. It's our way of keeping him in our lives, in the living and the doing, in the planning and the recording of our dailyness, an unseen thread binding us together for all time. It might not work, of course, and we might find that it could be just too painful an expedition for us, but nothing can be worse than nothing, which is what last year felt like. It was a void of emptiness, of barely existing, of denial and being numb and of being constantly exhausted.
So here goes............January.
The 21st of this month, of course, is THE date. The date of the phone call, the question, the answer, the date our lives and our hearts splintered like crystal shards fracturing our very souls forever.
The long plane journey to Taiwan, the tentative touching of my son's pale, beautiful and so terribly cold face. Police, courts, paperwork, drinking Chinese tea in the coffin shop, the priest, choosing flowers ( how did we know what flowers he would want?), the urn, his friends, a service so beautiful it was heart-stopping; talking to Mark as we rode to the crematorium with his coffin in the same car, the respectful bowing, the open door of the furnace, the final signature and the unbelievable, sacred beauty of powerful flames releasing my boy's soul to Heaven..............and then the endless journey home, with tears dropping silently
onto the urn cradled embryonic against my heart. All I had left of my amazing, outrageous and precious son.
Except it wasn't, of course, I had photographs, memories, the sound of his voice in my head, cards and presents he had bought, furniture, some clothes and the most special of all, his friends, who have stayed in our lives and become our friends, some virtually and some actually, their presence a comfort and a continuous connection to the now as well as the then.
So, on the weekend before the 21st, we found ourselves in London, in the buzz and the bustle, in the crowds and the chaos. We had tickets for Cirque du Soleil in our hands and questions in our hearts. Was this the right thing to be doing? What would Mark be thinking? He would have thought we were mad! London resonates with Mark; the pores of the pavements, the ornate buildings, the smells, sights and sounds all carry a memory of lunch, a show, an argument, a greeting hug and a wistful goodbye. So many weekends and afternoons when Mark strolled the city with his own confidence
and charming arrogance.
             We decided to go to the V&A, or rather we found ourselves there unplanned and haphazardly. The majestic rooms, and exhibits preening themselves, showing off their wares, their uniqueness and their rarity drawing the eye, and occasionally the breath and the curiosity.  We wandered, we whispered and we wondered whether Mark would have loathed, loved or lingered over the pottery, the costumes, the tiles and the glimpses into times gone by.

We dipped into the Natural History Museum, proud that we were doing something cultural beyond shopping, an activity hated by my eldest son. It heaved and breathed with a life of its own, pulsating from room to room until we could stand it no longer and we were rudely regurgitated onto the pavement to make our way back to our hotel to refresh ourselves before the evening.
An hour and a half later we retraced our steps to the Royal Albert Hall, excited and giddy in anticipation of what was to come. What came were wonderous, impossible and reality defying acts that had us on the edge of our seats, gasping out loud, laughing freely and totally absorbed in the spectacle that is Cirque du Soleil. Each tumbler, tightrope walker, acrobat, uni cyclist, clown, and unsuspecting member of the audience cajoled into participating, amused, thrilled and amazed. For a while we were lost in the wonder of it all, felt normal, and relaxed and it was good. We drew strength from their energy, the rare sound of each
other's laughter and from doing something quite extraordinarily ordinary.

 We all slept well, exhausted by our efforts and perhaps by a sense of certainty that this was better than the lonely isolation grief inflicts on its hosts. Being together and doing something positive was the mantra for this year and so far, all three weeks of so far, it felt better.
A brisk walk in the morning brought us to Holy Trinity, Brompton, breakfast in church, a warm welcome and the startling memory that it was in this church that Mark did an Alpha course and took his first firm steps of faith; a faith that upheld him in all his travels around the world and comforted us in his death.

The music, the families, the vibrance was infectious and we were caught up in something greater than ourselves, something unseen but nevertheless tangible and real. The speaker was invited up onto the stage, a young man,
aged 32, a family man from Montana, USA. He spoke quickly; he spoke passionately; he spoke with a language and a wisdom beyond his years. He was mesmerising and we were slowly drawn in. And then he told us about his daughter. She died.( My child died). His family were broken and hurt. (My family is torn apart and hurting). He spoke of the mess, the despair, the questions he asked of God and he spoke of his anger, but he also spoke softly of his little girl; the sadness of her not being here physically with her family anymore and he spoke confidently of courage and hope. No platitudes, no patronising, no sweeping statements, no meaningless well- meaning phrases, just raw honesty about how this is for families and parents like us. Were we meant to be there? Of course we were! God and Mark know exactly how tough this is for us and how desperately we needed to hear this young man and his message of truth, comfort and compassion.
Lost for words, we spilled out of church and drifted towards coffee and Harrods. The coffee was a good idea but Harrods definitely wasn't!. The surreal world of glitter and gold, of consumer goods costing obscene amounts of money both fascinated and repulsed us.
We rode the hypnotic escalators up and rode them down again, resisting the urge to be drawn into this false senario of pretence, before emerging into the cold to return to the car and a stop/start journey through London to the M1 and home.
So, as we circle around January, four years on, we are still breathing, we are together and Mark is firmly and securely part of us in every ordinary day and in the awful, stomach punching anniverary day too. And when January comes around again next year, we will have new memories mingled with
Mark- memories to draw on, lean on and hold on to..........and maybe it will help.