It is raining.
I have spent the week feeling agitated. Sometimes it is good to admit it. I have been angry with so many things. I have mostly aimed my rage at motorists near the school gate; uttering expletives and being thankful for the mask covering them up. When I get like this my nerves are all over the place. I want a hug but please don’t touch me; I repel the universe. Grief is a bit like unmarked poles of a magnet. Yes and no. Positive and negative. Playing with the iron filings of life.
I was cross with Seb. I felt like I had been sentenced to a lifetime of perpetually picking up his wet towels. Always the widow, forever under his shadow. Annoyed with how things are now and projecting misery onto the woman who loved him so much when he was living. Almost forgetting that the domestic detritus was instantly forgiven, just as he overlooked my habits. A time when we didn’t really mind; the good old days.
Months back my dear friend and I each made a compilation of our top Belle and Sebastian songs. We didn’t rank them. We didn’t dare. I missed some out and he reminded me, then I put them in- my brain still not functioning. The list is often on repeat. I tumble through it, like a kid rolling down a hill. Sometimes music becomes so familiar that I listen to the memory and not the song- but this week I heard it, the words like a collision with a rock. Another Sunny Day invites you in to skip along, it turns the rope; it is lovely. Then at the end playtime is suddenly over. Love found and lost. The kind of romance you long for at 21. You had it, but it’s all gone now. Where did it go? It’s Over. Ghost figures of past, present, future, haunting the heart. The last verse written like an unwelcome waking up and as you open your eyes the sky falls in.
This morning I woke up and I wasn’t angry anymore. A relief for now. The unpleasant feelings take the most out of me, fighting to remain civil and not explode. I remember the love and my reason for being. I do things that help. I rant at my friends. I medicate with comedy specials on tv.
For the family, since he died life has felt mostly like we are in a state of waiting, the pandemic halting any plans being made. The mess of the world impacting upon the help we can access for the loss. A pause on words shared in his memory when we are close enough to read the expression on each others faces and discern the atmosphere in the room. There has been no spontaneity allowed. We want as much of Seb as we can get in his memorial- the act of us gathered almost enough to conjure up the man holding court, gesticulating with the drink in his hand; his voice getting louder as more ideas flood his mind. Seb would commentate on his own end, the switchboard of his thoughts lighting up rapidly with it all. We can be with him again- but we need a place.
We’ve been trying to get him a bench by the beach. When we moved to Crosby I asked him how we had managed to come and live on holiday. I think we’d just had an ice cream. It was a time when LP was too young for her own and I’d bring along a bib and a spoon and give out doses from my cone. It was the start of the next chapter. Neither of us could remember whose idea it had been to move back to his hometown but once we had decided it seemed like the only thing to do. Seb trusted me to make the best of things for us- come what may.
At his funeral we were instructed that we could not approach the coffin and so my last words were spoken before the true end. He hadn’t gone yet. Not entirely. Still we were rendered dumb by the circumstances. So the bench is not just a seat with a view. The bench is a symbol of a life lived. A place to say goodbye and hello again and remember. A landmark to notice. Somewhere to tell stories about him. The bench will be a place to hand our little girl an ice cream and talk about her daddy and the days when we really did live our lives on holiday. The start of the song.