9 years: a letter

Today, in the tradition that we - Kimmy and I - established a few years ago, I climbed a hill and thought about you. Jamie came too (he usually does) and we chatted about stuff that you’d be quite proud of, I think. The fact that I’ve written a book and people are actually interested in reading it. Our scheming to pack in the world of work and retire early. The travels we’ve done. But then it rained, so we scampered home.

I’ve taken you with me on so many of those travels, of course, smuggling you across borders in a dodgy looking TCM bottle and furtively flinging you into woodlands, canyons, rivers and ornamental gardens in countries I think you’d be interested in. I also use you with alarming frequency as a reason to take myself out for a long lunch or book a holiday. I read something somewhere that the best way to honour someone who died is to take the habits you loved the most about them and propagate them in your own daily life. So yeah, I’ve been travelling well, eating well, living generously and winking at people.

I also realised recently, looking at some of our email exchanges and your newspaper columns, that I’ve gradually incorporated some of your more frustrating habits into my own motions. Like sending a single, persistent and stubborn question mark to Jamie when he hasn’t replied to my last message, or embellishing personal anecdotes with too much creative licence. Something about apples falling, and trees.

9 years is a fucking long time, isn’t it? I’m glad we didn’t have to spend any of that time arguing about the shifting of the political Overton window, or ULEZ, or pandemic mismanagement. I’m glad you didn’t have to see the rise in global fascism, deal with the cost of living crisis, or witness a live streamed genocide and the breakdown of the myths of institutional world order. I’m glad you didn’t see the planet literally setting on fire.

You missed my wedding, though, which I think you would’ve really enjoyed. We drank a lot of whisky. I’ve run half marathons and done triathlons and climbed mountains and delivered speeches and won awards and had promotions and been published and done so many other silly little things of what feels like absolutely no consequence, enough things to make up a little life. Enough things to amass over 9 years and look back on in dazed bewilderment - like, yes, all those things really have happened. There are more frown lines and aching bones, more pockets of wisdom and better stories. Better recipes. Better travel tips. Better tech. (Christ, what god awful gadgets would you have bought by now if you were still alive?) Oh, and dad trainers are fashionable now, which I’m sure you’ll be pleased to know. We’re heading back to Vietnam later this year so we can go to the north, if you like.

We’ve lost a few others. Some you didn’t know, some you were close to. I bet you and Cousin Dick are having a delightful time together, aren’t you? Watching us move through various modes of surviving and thriving.

I still don’t know how to pick apart different griefs, how you redirect your light and energy to one as it flares and another recedes, what it means to mourn alone, or together, or publicly, or privately, or quietly, or ragefully. All I know is the progressive accumulation of time: imperceptible with every waking, but noticed, not with fanfare or ceremony, just with mild and fleeting surprise, every 9 years or so.

With all my love, always,

Map xxx