Giving sorrow words (Shakespeare told me I could text you)

Darling Tiara Lady,

I can hear you telling me to get over myself and stop being maudlin. To not write about this anniversary, because I can’t change the past. But who am I to argue with Shakespeare?

Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak,
Whispers in the overwrought heart and bids it break
                                Macbeth, William Shakespeare

So here I am, giving sorrow words.

Don’t worry, I won’t let you down this evening. Bubbles o’clock will be EPIC today.

A year has passed since you left. At first every day was like walking a tightrope. I was suspended high above a freezing cold, bottomless lake. Trying to function, knowing that the smallest thing could make me look down. Then I’d lose my balance, hurtle down into the depths of that lake. I plunged into that icy pool again and again. It always came unexpectedly, catching me off guard. It knocked the air out of my lungs, made my heart ache. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Could only feel that visceral, tearing pain.

Those plunges are rarer now. More often the funny, priceless memories help keep my head above the icy water. I think about you often. I say hello to your photo on my mantelpiece regularly. I'm pretty sure you're laughing at me (as usual).

I was searching using the term "dive" on Microsoft images.
Look what turned up in the bottom right corner. I shit you not.
(Image from here)

That decision I made, just over a year ago, to not come and see you one last time when I had the chance, was a mistake. It ranks right up there with my biggest fuckups of all time. That decision has weighed me down, pulling on my ankles as I fought to swim to the surface of that lake and take a gulp of precious air.

There are a handful of sensible reasons that stopped me from being there. All of them were utter crap. That guilt will stay with me forever. I wish, with every fibre, that I had come to see you one last time when you offered. I am poorer for not doing that, and I can’t ever forgive myself. I hope you can. I'll be coming to visit you in your garden soon, I promise.

As humans we all crave connection. We connected quickly, fiercely and without expectation. I’ll always be grateful to you. The wonderful gift of the circle of love you created continues.

I hope that wherever you are, it’s bubbly o’clock every hour. I bet you have Luther there keeping you furry company. We all miss you here, and wonder what the Field of Flowers is really like.

I came to grieve, but found comfort here in this garden of memory.
Perhaps our spirits live in perfect peace in the wonder of each
flower and bird and tree.

                                Nan Witcomb

Much love,

Your Happy Sisters Band mate,

Michaela Like Vuvuzela

PS Yes I know I still text you. Shhhhhh. Shakespeare told me I could.