A problem shared

David, again.

I have been torn open. Ripped into pieces.

I met David’s parents for a drink in Piccadilly. I was tearful as soon as I saw his Dad across the room. We chatted for 15 minutes before David’s mum arrived. Catching up.

I loved David’s dad when we met first, after David’s funeral. And now I love his mum, too.

How could I love someone I have known for all of 90 minutes?

Because she gave David his sandy blonde hair. And she has his quick wit and sharp intelligence. Just as David’s dad has his sense of humour, his soulful eyes, his easy kindness.

Before me they sat and we cried (ok, I cried) and laughed. They were tactile with each other. Like teenagers who share a new love. How could I help but fall in love with them?

We talked about David’s brother, and his niece. His headstone now erected, and his friends. How they are doing, how I’m doing.

I was in love with him I told his mum. I am in love with him.

I once escaped to the bathroom to sob uncontrollably. I spent the whole time with tears silently running down my cheeks. It was a very beautiful and sophisticated private members bar. I didn’t care.

They were rushing off to see a play. They both think they may sleep through it. They both woke early and couldn’t go back to sleep.

I want to rend my garments.

I ride my moped home, muffling shuddered sobs. The rushing air dries my tears as they fall.

Nine months of a grief.

Unique for each, but shared.

Is it halved? Or multiplied? It’s magnitude is greater than I can perceive.

Go gently, beloved. Those words at the end of David’s funeral service. They flutter around my brain lightly, like a butterfly.

Go gently, beloved.

Is it worse for those left behind?