B Remembering James

REMEMBERING JAMES

When I look back over my life, the memories I have stretch back into
the past like the links of a chain. Each link is a vivid picture, some
good, some bad, but all of them part of what I am.
If I choose to look back down that chain, the thing that strikes me so
forcefully is how the most joyful memories stand out like patches of
sunshine from the bad ones. Sunshine, on the links of a chain that
stretches back over 55 years.
I remember a wooden horse that my Dad made for me when I was about 4
years old. I remember a cowgirl outfit that my Mum made when I was 5. I
remember school discos, and best friends, and I remember the birth of
my first child as clearly as if it were yesterday.
When I was 35, I gave birth to twins. A boy and a girl, perfect golden
babies, tiny and infinitely precious. Most of my memories since then
contain them, their first steps, their first day at school, and mostly,
their pure enjoyment of life, and their laughter.
Then, almost 2 years ago, my 18-year-old son drowned, and for a while
I thought neither I nor my daughter would ever get over his loss. But
one of my clearest memories of their childhood is of sitting on a beach
while they brought me pebbles from the edge of the sea.
Cupped in their wet hands, they shone with vivid colour until they
dried, when they became just dull grey stones. We still took home
pocketfuls of those stones; maybe because each one held the memory of
when it had been a jewel, and we placed them round our pond in the
hopes that one day they would become jewel-like again.
I feel that grief is like that. The hard lump of dull grey that must
not be parted with, because beneath the surface it holds the memory of
joy.
Losing a child is like giving birth to one. After time, you remember
that there was pain, but not how bad that pain was, and the rewards far
outweigh the losses. To remember James only with grief would be to deny
the joy that his life gave. I never mourn his loss without first
thinking that for eighteen years I had the privilege of being his
mother. His sister, Amy misses him for different reasons. For 18 years
she and he were half of a pair. They fought, made up, and supported
each other every day, and his death left a great void in her life. We
talk about James often, as we should. We have cried together, but
mostly we laugh together. It is hard to remember our James without
laughter; the two were inextricably linked.
The links of my chain shine in the sunshine of my son's smile, as my
daughter's does, with her son's.
Sleep tight, James. We love you.