completely crazy, but I’m going to say it anyway.”
Uncle Bob laughed a little to himself before continuing.
“It doesn’t benefit to dwell on such matters,” he said.
I must have looked at him blankly as he then asked,
“Do you know what I mean, Simon?”
I shook my head, before quietly murmuring,
“Not really.”
“No matter how much you loved him, no matter how close you were, Colin has gone and will never come back. We wish he could, but he can’t. He isn’t sitting on a white cloud looking down on us from heaven. He isn’t being punished for eternity in hell. He has just gone. Now, if you spend a lot of your time thinking about Colin and about his death, it will just eat away at you. Don’t do it, Simon. It will just make you a very unhappy young man.”
I think one of the reasons I remember this conversation so vividly, was because it was so unusual for an adult to be so blunt with me. Most of them were telling me that the sun, a star more than one hundred times larger than earth, was shining because of Colin. I was thirteen but even I wasn’t stupid enough to believe that. Uncle Bob was direct and I appreciated this. I have always thought what he said was wise and profound and I have put it down to him being a highly intelligent medical professional who was no doubt hugely experienced in dealing in death. I told my Dad about this conversation when I was in my twenties and he said it was ‘just another example of ‘Bob being a bit of a dick’. It’s funny how two people can interpret the same thing in completely different ways.
I suppose I should have heeded Uncle Bob’s warnings about dwelling on Colin’s death, but despite Mum and Dad’s efforts to distract me, I found it impossible not to dwell on it. We had become a family of three, every meal sat around our kitchen table, was a reminder of Colin’s death, as it was square table, for four people. One side was no longer filled and the chair that had previously contained a vibrant, talkative child was now empty. Meal times were not the only reminder. Cricket reminded me of Colin. Playing out reminded me of Colin. An empty bed in my bedroom reminded me of Colin. Deaths on the news reminded me of Colin. Deaths in action films reminded me of Colin. Nicky reminded me. Mum and Dad reminded me. Swimming reminded me. Everything reminded me. For a long time, these reminders weren’t happy, poignant reminders either, they were distressing reminders.
When the summer holidays were over and I returned to school at Parklands, I obviously moved up into Third Year and a whole load of new kids started as First Year’s. Colin was not meant to start that year, he would have been due to start the following year, but their presence made me cry because it was a further reminder that Colin would never be coming to my school.
I hated all the constant reminders but Mum approached Colin’s death in a totally different way. Mum wanted to be reminded of Colin. She went looking for reminders. Mum kept photos of Colin up around the house. The photos were bad enough, but even worse were the home video recordings of Colin and me that Mum would watch over and over again. I hated seeing them. They freaked me out. The videos somehow seemed to make the non-existent exist. Seeing Colin speak, move, smile and laugh again just destroyed me. Mum took great comfort in watching those videos but I couldn’t watch more than a couple of minutes as they totally freaked me out.
With Colin no longer around, my childhood bore a wound that took several years to heal and always left a scar. I had never been the most comfortable child in my own skin anyway, but after Colin’s death I had a sense that everyone was always looking at me. I thought everyone at school who barely knew me, treated me as ‘that kid whose brother died’. Life felt hard and as far as I was concerned, the blame lay at the feet of one person, Luke ‘Boffin’ Booth.
By appealing to the public, the police
Uncle Bob laughed a little to himself before continuing.
“It doesn’t benefit to dwell on such matters,” he said.
I must have looked at him blankly as he then asked,
“Do you know what I mean, Simon?”
I shook my head, before quietly murmuring,
“Not really.”
“No matter how much you loved him, no matter how close you were, Colin has gone and will never come back. We wish he could, but he can’t. He isn’t sitting on a white cloud looking down on us from heaven. He isn’t being punished for eternity in hell. He has just gone. Now, if you spend a lot of your time thinking about Colin and about his death, it will just eat away at you. Don’t do it, Simon. It will just make you a very unhappy young man.”
I think one of the reasons I remember this conversation so vividly, was because it was so unusual for an adult to be so blunt with me. Most of them were telling me that the sun, a star more than one hundred times larger than earth, was shining because of Colin. I was thirteen but even I wasn’t stupid enough to believe that. Uncle Bob was direct and I appreciated this. I have always thought what he said was wise and profound and I have put it down to him being a highly intelligent medical professional who was no doubt hugely experienced in dealing in death. I told my Dad about this conversation when I was in my twenties and he said it was ‘just another example of ‘Bob being a bit of a dick’. It’s funny how two people can interpret the same thing in completely different ways.
I suppose I should have heeded Uncle Bob’s warnings about dwelling on Colin’s death, but despite Mum and Dad’s efforts to distract me, I found it impossible not to dwell on it. We had become a family of three, every meal sat around our kitchen table, was a reminder of Colin’s death, as it was square table, for four people. One side was no longer filled and the chair that had previously contained a vibrant, talkative child was now empty. Meal times were not the only reminder. Cricket reminded me of Colin. Playing out reminded me of Colin. An empty bed in my bedroom reminded me of Colin. Deaths on the news reminded me of Colin. Deaths in action films reminded me of Colin. Nicky reminded me. Mum and Dad reminded me. Swimming reminded me. Everything reminded me. For a long time, these reminders weren’t happy, poignant reminders either, they were distressing reminders.
When the summer holidays were over and I returned to school at Parklands, I obviously moved up into Third Year and a whole load of new kids started as First Year’s. Colin was not meant to start that year, he would have been due to start the following year, but their presence made me cry because it was a further reminder that Colin would never be coming to my school.
I hated all the constant reminders but Mum approached Colin’s death in a totally different way. Mum wanted to be reminded of Colin. She went looking for reminders. Mum kept photos of Colin up around the house. The photos were bad enough, but even worse were the home video recordings of Colin and me that Mum would watch over and over again. I hated seeing them. They freaked me out. The videos somehow seemed to make the non-existent exist. Seeing Colin speak, move, smile and laugh again just destroyed me. Mum took great comfort in watching those videos but I couldn’t watch more than a couple of minutes as they totally freaked me out.
With Colin no longer around, my childhood bore a wound that took several years to heal and always left a scar. I had never been the most comfortable child in my own skin anyway, but after Colin’s death I had a sense that everyone was always looking at me. I thought everyone at school who barely knew me, treated me as ‘that kid whose brother died’. Life felt hard and as far as I was concerned, the blame lay at the feet of one person, Luke ‘Boffin’ Booth.
By appealing to the public, the police
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