Erasure

Day 1013.

I saw the Simon Curtis movie Yesterday

The premise of the film is that there’s some kind of worldwide ‘powercut' and the result is that the world is now one where the Beatles never existed. Only one person remembers them. 

The albums are all gone, internet searches bring up pictures of the insect.

For many grieving mothers, we are often left in a world of just that.

Their child will often drop away from conversation, as the now finite scenarios with their child in it, are passed.

A dear friend reports that when he was little, his older brother died. His parents cleared the house and his brother’s room of all their dead child’s belongings, and so, his brother was erased - just like the Beatles in the film.

This works for some.

Not for me.

Mercifully, my friends and family speak of him often, with joy as well as sadness. Tales of him, his possessions, photos, evidence of his existence are all around me.

But still the erasure moves into life with stealth -

Restaurant tables are booked for one less.

One less cinema ticket is bought.

School forms, passports, all the things are one less in their number.

Some days, even I am not sure Luke ever existed. 

I personally fight that erasure.

If we three are seated at a restaurant table, laid for four, we stop the waiters from clearing the extra setting.

We have birthday parties for him.

I still buy four tickets to the movies.

Okay, I don’t do it with airline seats, but I am often on a plane reported to be a full flight, with an empty seat right next to me. Hi Luke!

Our friends join us in counting him in.

It’s true that we lead this amongst our friends, and welcome it sometimes teary, and sometimes with mirth, often with recognition of how shit it is that our lives came to this.

But we openly invite and display that we hold space for Luke, and set the tone.

Not everyone is comfortable with it, but in our example, they often find their way to join us, in whatever way they can.

And if they can’t - it doesn’t matter.

So don’t be afraid to speak of our dead children.

We’ve not forgotten, so you’re not reminding us, but in fact, you are honoring their memory and ours.