New Way?

Shaking it up.
I change the ragged unsatisfactory ritual of Luke’s death day.

I am in London
without Adam or George.

As I book the trip, I wonder how I would mark this day.
I fret that I will bring my misery to those for whom it is less heavy.
That my need to mark this day will not be met.

My fear is unfounded...

“Oh so you’ll be here for Luke’s Yahrzeit!” my sister texts unsolocited
”Dinner at ours with Japes and Sam, Mum and us?”

I internally fuss about committing.
The time zones.
The time of the last proof of life.
The hybrid ritual, the night before, the night of, the day of...
I won’t be able to leave the candle burning all night!
I surrender.

“Lovely” I reply.

Without a word from me...
My sister Anna gets Lucy to gather greenery from the English countryside.
Japes and Sam buy the Italian candle we used at the funerals.
Anna produces a ring of oasis and roses that match our Negronis perfectly.

It’s all a bit too jolly, for me.
I retreat, solo, to the roof deck with cigarettes and drink, unable to tolerate the noise.
I resolve to go with the jollyness, though I remain still within. Another Negroni please.

Around the dining table, together we assemble the floral wreath, chatting as we go.
It’s not the same.
It’s not a lot of things.
And it is everything.

I place the candle in the center of our creation.
Silence falls upon us.
The sun goes down.
I light it.
We stare at the flame rising and dancing in our collective breath.

I am numb.
I feel empty.
He still isn’t here.
Panic rises.

“Let’s tell our favorite Luke stories”… my sister breaks the awkward air.

I am adrift and yet anchored by these kind souls that share our history.
They knew Luke from birth to adulthood.
They missed the tricky days, the terror, the agony.

The stories are animated and hilarious.
It ends in raucous, rib aching laughter.
It’s another, yet still true history of my boy.
And somehow he IS here.

For all the sadness, the unbelievableness...
Here I am at the end of year 9 reminded that life with Luke, both little and big, was, a ride.

He was kind.
He was full of life.
He was hilarious.

I feel disconnected from my grief, which I thought to be all I had left of him
and instead find myself immersed in the joy of him.

Maybe this is the new way.