Always write the letter

This was first published on February 3, 2021 at my Tumblr blog, here.

Imbolc is the traditional Gaelic festival marking the beginning of spring. A feast celebrating cleansing and renewal as the darkness of winter gradually recedes, it starts – though other calendars may tell us different – on February 1. 

Given the natural seasonal changeover that is occurring at this time of year, the concomitant thematic connotations are fairly universal. As days grow longer and the earth springs forth in its telluric revival, our collective sense of hope burgeons. 

Colour is added to our lives as the tawny greys of December and January slowly subside. Defiant yellow daffodils puncture the damp land all around us while snowdrops bloom and the smell of wild garlic begins to drift through the countryside.

Yet, at this time of year I find that I don’t want the days to brighten and I resent Helios in his chariot for greeting me earlier as he crosses the sky each passing day. 

The reason is that this time of universal regeneration is also a time of profound personal loss. February 1 this year was the 17th anniversary of my mother’s sudden death and today, February 3, is the sixth anniversary of my brother’s suicide.

When their anniversaries come round, it is the thought of Paddy’s death that hits me hardest, which is why I tend to focus more on it. It is more recent, true, but it is the nature of his demise – the fact he was just 18, with his whole life ahead of him, and the terrifying route he chose – which makes it all the more difficult to come to terms with.

Six years have now passed, but though I’ve lived through many renewals, a part of me is still marooned in the winter dark of 2015, sat in one of the small rooms of the Foyle Search and Rescue office in Derry with my aunt Marie, asking if there was any sign of life when he came out of the water.

That part of me is still turning over the events of our lives that preceded his death, trying to keep it all together while relying on the searing heat of anger to light the way through the thickening fog of the past.

Every year, I wonder whether it will be worthwhile to write something as a sort of tribute to my mother and brother, to mark the occasion of their anniversaries. It’s a hard thing to do. After all, what’s left to say? There are no new memories with them and the memories I do have are softly fading, like old newspaper clippings. 

Inevitably, though, there is always something to be said. It’s just a case of finding the words or waiting for them to come. As Christopher Hitchens once wisely said, always write the letter.

In case you ever wonder whether to write to anyone, always do, because you’d be surprised how much of a difference it can make. I regret not doing it more often myself.

Christopher Hitchens

So, in a sense, these words are a letter, to myself, to anyone who knew my mother and brother, and to anyone who endures loss.

My mother Charlene and my brother Paddy touched the lives of many different people in ways that I am still learning about after all these years.

In the immediate aftermath of Paddy’s death, our uncle Christian made a beautiful tribute video using footage of him in Hawaii that has been viewed, I discovered only recently, over 16,000 times. That suggests more than a few strangers watched it. I wonder what they got from it.

Each person they interacted with has their own experiences of and with them. Their friends know them in ways I simply couldn’t. 

As I continue the journey through the grief, I hope to hear as many of their memories as I can. The story will be told.