One for Joy

I’d only just written my post about feeling my mum’s absence so keenly, and the universe sent me a sign.

Let’s be clear – I am not spiritual. I don’t believe in life after death and I don’t believe in ghosts or spirits. Our brains look for patterns and meanings, so we place significance to things that are merely a coincidence. We don’t even know we’re doing it. That’s my theory anyway.

But twice in this grief rollercoaster a random occurrence has felt too poignant to be a coincidence. Both times it has brought me comfort. So I am prepared to put my cynicism aside, stop over-analysing and accept these occurrences as something akin to a sign from the universe. My brain has successfully located some meaning for me, at a time of need.

The first instance was when J’s radio was playing in the garage where he died, three weeks after his death. I’d been going in and out of the garage on a daily basis – partly to force myself to confront his suicide head-on. The radio had been playing when he died (I think), but I had switched it off the day after. Though I can’t actually remember doing it, everything from those two days is a bit hazy. It hadn’t been touched since then. And then this one random morning, I unlocked the garage door and the radio was playing. Weird.

This week my mum has been on my mind a lot. My eldest son’s work experience week triggered a bout of melancholy, because she wasn’t here to celebrate his achievement. Today, I was putting some clothes away in Dylan’s room and saw a pile of stuff on top of his chest of drawers. Peeking out from the middle of the stack of papers, I spotted my mum’s handwriting. “Dear Dylan,” I read, in the corner sticking out. “I hate saying goodbye.”

I pulled it out fully – she had written him a note on some plain paper ripped out of a sketchbook. The date of the letter was 23rd May 2022. She’d come to stay with us straight after J’s suicide on 02 April 2022. This was her letter to Dylan for him to find the day after she left. Here is what it says:

“Dear Dylan,

I hate saying goodbye. So I will think about the time I have spent with you and what a pleasure it has been for me.

To listen to your talks about cars, WWII, aeroplanes and all those games you play with Nathan and your friends.

To note how mature, caring and helpful you have become and how many books and magazines you read.

I return to Kifissia first and then to Andros where I will soak up the sunshine, watch the sunsets and if the water isn’t too cold, have my first swim in the sea. All love and hugs AND —->

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Make sure you enjoy your life, work hard and help your mother whenever you can.

xxxxxxxxxx

Yiayia

1. I love you and always will. I am proud of you.
2. I will write to you as often as I can
3. When you have started senior school I might just be able to text you on WhatsApp

QUOTATIONS

A. “Make today so awesome yesterday is jealous.”

B. “The journey of a lifetime starts with the turning of a page.”

C. “Count your rainbows, not your thunderstorms…”

—

This letter was from over four years ago, Dylan was twelve. Where had he stashed it? Why did he suddenly take the pile of papers out? Why now? He is at his dad’s so I can’t ask him.

She wasn’t ill then, she was still the strongest and most energetic person I knew. Reading it now (looking for meaning and patterns, of course) it reads like a letter from someone who is saying goodbye in more than one sense.

I know in my logical mind that it is just a random thing. That Dylan was just tidying up a drawer or emptying a bag. It’s not a sign from the universe, or my mum trying to reach out to me. But it gave me comfort to know that she already saw all the potential in him, and that she wrote it down in such a beautiful, heartfelt way. So I am going to tell my logical mind to be quiet, embrace the timing of this and the quiet joy it has brought to me.