There are songs on the radio now that Tony has never heard.
He’ll never know, nor will it matter, how windy it is this June.
I’ll never be able to share with him, how the kids have developed a taste for apples, which they wouldn’t eat before. I can’t laugh with him over how I opened the door of the Bump’s room this morning and found her already dressed for the day, an oversized pink bowler hat on her head and a fluffy scarf over her pajamas.
He’ll never know about those bushfires that happened in Queensland in January, nor the floods soon after.
And I’ll never be able to tell him how my ex-boyfriend was on this season of Masterchef.
The ordinariness of it guts me. Without still being here, making a mark, witnessing the events of our lives, the events of the planets… Tony is water washed into the background of history.
I suppose, if the essence of life is bearing witness to the change of your world, then the essence of death is being unable to. Life continues. You do not.
A million tiny little things that have happened in the six months Tony died, none of them significant. Yet all of them serving to dull his memory, his influence, his presence on the world.
Some afternoons, late, on the beach, I watch the tide roll in and slowly obliterate footprints and scuff marks, wash away the proof of life that exists on the sand. Slowly, so slowly, that one footprint, that one event that marked a single second in someone’s life… it’s erased.
It never fails to make me sad.
Memories, they are fabulous.
The pain of it is not being able to create any more.