Dear Momo,
It’s been a while since I’ve written here. There are lots of reasons, many too prosaic to get in to, but mostly it’s because the second year of grief is just… dull. It’s a grind. Gone are the early days of incredible pain interspersed with moments of clarity, of gratitude, of inspiration. It’s harder now to find the joy in the small things – cups of coffee, walks by the sea, time with friends, art – although I’m still trying every day to do so. A lot of people say the second year is harder and although I don’t think I agree, I can understand why they say it. It’s more of a struggle. It’s heavier. It’s boring.
It seems strange to say that. To think that losing you could ever become normal enough to be boring! And yet it is. I still have those moments where it hits me all over again that you’re gone, and the pain then is sharp and vital and it’s almost a relief to feel it and express it. But between those moments – most of the time – your absence has become hideously ordinary. My life with you now feels like the anomaly – you were this beautiful, brilliant gift that I had for a while and now I have to get on with the rest of my life without you. And honestly, it’s pretty shit.
That doesn’t stop me wishing you were here to see everything we’ve achieved, though. Our house is rented out, and Lyla and I are living in Jonny and Heather’s annexe just like you and I joked about. It’s beautiful – cosy and stylish and comfortable. I’m doing good at work. Lyla is happy at preschool and she just gets smarter and funnier and better company every single day. She is kind and thoughtful and helpful and silly and sensitive and full of imagination and fun. You would love spending time with her so much. She talks about you every day, and her own grief is hitting a little bit more now – she cries for you sometimes, and all I can do is agree with her – I wish you could come back, too. I miss you, too. You’re my favourite person in heaven, too.
In two weeks I head to our London to see family and friends. While I’m there, I’m meeting up with “my January mums” as you always called them – the incredible women from all around the UK (and beyond!) who came together thanks to nothing more than the month of our child’s predicted birth date, and who are now more like family – and we’re going to the same restaurant on the South Bank where you and I had our last meal out together. I remember it so clearly – we drank margaritas and ate fish tacos and laughed and cried at being back in our place, together. The place we met. The place we fell in love. Same thing.
It won’t be the same without you. But then nothing is. And that’s what I’m having to learn to adjust to, this second year. Nothing is the same. Nothing ever will be.
I love you, Mikey. I always have. I always will.
Your Ems 💖
Widow All At Sea 