I am reblogging this post written as the first Christmas without Andrew approached. Unlike then, I do have a Christmas Tree. It is beautiful ft. tall Frazer, but other than a string of clear lights, noting else is hanging from its branches. Zoe the cat, Andrew’s cat, (who has become SO fat in his absence… he would upset with us for feeding her on demand… but he’s not here and…) seems to like the tree’s water more than her own. I can’t believe that this will be the fourth Christmas without out Tigger.
Now I want to cry !
Unlike my friend and fellow survivor Iola, who’s already bought and decorated a beautiful Christmas tree, Christmas just isn’t coming to me.
Sometimes I see Andrew’s face in my mind’s eyes. I hear his voice in my mind’s ears.
I play with his long, strong, lustrous hair. He lets me make lots of little plaits, & his hair is so thick that it stays like that.
And in the car, if one of his siblings beat him to the front seat, he puts his head on my lap in the back:
“Mummy, can I be tired on you?” he asks me.
“Yes my love,” I used to say. “You be tired on me.”
He would close his eyes and I would stroke his face with my fingers, play with his hair…
Into this treasure chest of images, a ghastly one has sneaked in from somewhere; Andrew lying dead on a hospital bed behind the drawn curtains of a little, non descript cubicle.
His hair off his face hanging behind him… off the bed…. his skin cold… a tube coming out of mouth, a white brace collar around his neck…
“No, it’s better you don’t take his hand from under the sheet…” the doctors says stopping my hand midway.
And soon it will be Christmas, for a lot of people…
Come and be tired on me Andrew.
Of all the Christmas presents that I would like, that is the one I would cherish the most.