A story of grief by a man and a boy
Don’t panic, I’m actually having quite a nice day so far. Mostly because ever since I woke up at 5am I’ve been able to hear my wife’s voice in my head making me laugh and being, well, just being her. You see, she had a way about her that’s quite hard to explain. Funny as anything but not one for cracking jokes. She found humour in the things around her that other people missed. She also found few things more amusing than her friends being daft, annoying, vulgar or slapstick. And she thought it was hilarious when I made the wrong choices.
‘Do these brogues look good with these shorts?’
‘Do you think I could get away with wearing these trainers at my age?’
‘Don’t you think we should buy something more practical for the living room?’
‘What’s wrong with you, Benji. Do we need to talk? Did something happen at school that you’d like to tell to me about? What are you thinking? I think we should leave all the decisions to me. It’s sweet of you to make all of these suggestions, but I think you need to calm down and stop trying to be so independent.’
Perhaps I’m having a good day and one that’s going to see me approaching my situation with a touch of humour, because I’m finding myself worrying about the most vacuous things that might previously only have occupied my pre-widower mind.
Should I get another tattoo?
Have I arranged the furniture and the nicknacks in the new house the way she would?
Should I get the practical car or the one I want?
Am I going to look ridiculous in the new clothes I bought for the wedding I’m attending next week given that Desreen didn’t get chance to either tell me I look nice or about on the floor laughing at me trying to style myself?
Am I going to start my midlife crisis at 33 simply because I don’t have my life consultant here to keep me in check?
God only knows what’s going to become of me now she’s not around, but one thing is for sure. When I realise I’ve made the wrong decisions at least they will give me a laugh. I can already hear her pissing herself at the idea of me digging out my hi-tops in a bid to recapture a bit of my old self.