I Swear You Will Be Fine

Dear Josh,

Yet again, it feels like I have too much to tell you. Mum’s been here for basically the last 3 weeks. She leaves tomorrow. I’m not sure if we feel your loss more or less when we’re together.

We’re used to doing things together. Mum and I did London and other European cities together over the last 2 years. You were always invited but London just didn’t agree with you. So we just left it. But now, we can’t call you. We don’t get texts from Tun and Ammamma, telling us how you were coping and whether we needed to be worried. We sleep with our phones on silent. There is no news left to reach us.

Selfishly, I often wish we could still worry about you. Mum told me that when she wishes you were back, she forces herself to remember how much pain you were in and so how unfair that is. I’m not as nice as Mum. I don’t need to tell you that. There have been too many nights where I beg God to just let me see you again.

So we find weird ways of coping. I don’t think we’ve ever bought more presents to put in your bedroom. Not that you were short of presents when you were physically here, but you definitely aren’t now. We bring you up constantly. Would you have liked the show we just saw or found it stupid? Would you have enjoyed Edinburgh as much as we did? Could you have coped with the crowds in Covent Garden?

I don’t know if we’re forcing your name down people’s throats. We bring you up almost like a prayer, constantly needing to be said. God knows how crazy we sometimes sound. But I don’t think we care. When Mum and I are together, the hole of where you should be feels a lot more obvious. So if we bring you up constantly, it’s not just Mum and I. It’s always going to be Mum, you and me. Mum, Jess and Josh.

One of our youngest cousins asked me how many people were in my family. I didn’t hesitate. Three. Or five. If you count the dogs or our grandparents. Either one is acceptable.

Look after Mum for me. She’s coming home. That’s your turf now.

Love, Acca