Dear Joel

When you first died I spent half my life talking to you. Not out loud, obviously, because I’m not mad - in my head – a kind of running commentary, if you know what I mean. I didn’t have a lot else to do because I still had glandular fever and I got tired very quickly.

Mainly I spent my days trying to make sense of the pointless pointless … I just couldn’t understand how you could be there one minute – all tall and tousled blonde and that puzzled expression you always had, that way of pushing the hair out of your eyes – I never quite saw the point of that either, because it always flopped straight back down again.. I couldn’t get my head around how you could just stop like that – finish – come to an end. People don’t do that at twenty!

Anyway, time passed and I went back to college, and I didn’t get quite so tired, although I’ve never got completely back to normal. Boyfriends, lovely opium (such a shame you don’t seem to be able to buy that anymore), that house in Leyton, the villa in Nice, Kentish Town, heroin, some very good music, more boyfriends, other countries, babies, several husbands along the way…

It wasn’t that I forgot you - I don’t think that’s ever going to happen – but all those other things did – and as the years went on I didn’t say much to you anymore – not like I did at first. I’ve certainly never written you a letter before . I never really felt the need until now.

I have to talk to someone though– and there isn’t anyone else – not now. I wish that were different, but there you are.

The thing is, Joe – the thing is – your mum. She’s downstairs – right now. I know her life’s been one big crisis- great tragedies, dramas, huge triumphant highs and knuckle grazing lows. But this one is truly horrible – and she’s nearly eighty now (although you’d still never guess to look at her). I think that must make it harder .

I mean, what are you supposed to do when someone turns up on your doorstep one morning – in tears, white faced, shaking. I was hardly going to say no, was I. I don’t think anyone would – not under the circumstances.

It’s been a few days since then, and nothing’s really changed. I’ve taken her to my GP – they gave her some sleeping pills – two weeks worth, which I suppose is enough if she goes ahead and tops herself. She talks about that - wanting to join you – every morning - she seems at a lower ebb first thing. I did think about asking her to give me the pills - but then I decided against it. She’d only find anther way if she was that set on it. I’m counting on good manners instead. I can’t think of anything more impolite than committing suicide while you’re someone’s guest, can you? And anyway – if that’s what she wants I can’t stop her – and I won’t. I think she’s earned the right to do whatever the fuck she wants – at her age – after all that’s happened. I’m not going to patronise her by telling her to look on the bright side.

She says she isn’t going back – not to the cottage – she can’t bear it. I am trying to help. The Gordian knot that makes up her finances – you wouldn’t believe how tangled it all is – or maybe you would – I guess it was always like that when you were growing up. And all those houses. I don’t know how you can own three houses and be homeless but she seems to have managed it. She says she’ll have to get rid of one or two but I don’t think she can bring herself to. That’s you – your doing. “Joe loved it there so much I can’t - I just can’t “ she says. Then she cries some more.

I think she’s here for a month this time at least – then she says she hopes to move back to London where all will miraculously be okay again – I think she might be being a bit on the optimistic side there. Still, at least she’s looking forwards and I think that’s important. She starts the mornings wanting to die and then by the evening quite often she says she isn’t done yet. That’s a good thing, don’t you think?

But the fact remains – I have your mother downstairs – and five Japanese coats in the wardrobe in the spare room – beautiful – exquisite embroidery - but tattered now – and a Louis Vuitton case - from the days before they were vulgar look at me bags – that doesn’t fasten properly anymore – and my car boot is full of paintings, documents, photos of you, every letter you ever wrote. We haven’t got around to bringing them in yet.

I suppose the point of me writing all this Joe, is the hope that you can give me some kind of clue about what to do next – because I’m fucked if I know, and I don’t want to get it wrong. I think it’s the least you can do under the circumstances. She is your mother after all, and she has no one else. Don’t let me down. Be there, somewhere, and help.