It’s 9 years already, but might as well be 9 seconds, minutes, hours,
days, weeks or months – time having eased the outward grief but certainly not the
inner loss I feel for you – and never will.
Today I allow the inevitable avalanche of thoughts and memories to
engulf me, though they flit about the brain cell every day. Some daft thing will appear on telly and I’ll
think how you’d laugh or mimic it, which makes a smile dance across my face.
Being the only family member remaining on the island, the rest having
scarpered to the mainland, I feel your presence even stronger – a blessing in
itself, though a cuddle would be so much better. Yep, Tuta, as you used to call me as a little
toddler, misses and needs you very much and can only find the ether’s pathway
to have frequent wee natters with you. I
don’t know if a graveside would be any different, as your physical presence is
gone. But visits to where you were
expected that dreadful day are in a very beautiful spot, with gentle lappings
of the ocean that holds you tripping onto white sands.
Do you remember the time we went for a drive before my departure to
Vienna and you handed me a ciggy box with a little bit of sand in it? I do.
I also remember explaining to your young
and tender years that I couldn’t take it with me because of rules and
regulations governing what could and could not be taken to my new place of
work. Oh how I wish I’d kept that
precious sand. This week I made a
bracelet of snow jade with a small heart shaped box that opens and securely
fastens. You’d laugh that the
elasticated band is too big to tie a hidden knot to complete the bracelet,
though I’ve ordered some skinnier stuff to do the job. In that heart will go a few grains of
sand. I have another bracelet to make
which will be of moonstone or lapis lazuli and have a tiny ornate bottle which
can hold one grain of rice, but which will have sealed in it a drop of the
ocean that keeps you. It means that when
my health deteriorates I’ll still be able to pay my respects to you through
those dainty trinkets.
Been working on a large picture of you as well, but as yet cannot find
the oomph to complete it. When it’s
ready, it will have pride of place on my wall – and be one of the most unusual
pieces of art ever. I’d much rather have
the real McCoy though – you. That, as
yet, if ever, is not possible and laying you gracefully on land is something
akin to winning the lotto. Just a dream.
I’ve come to accept that you are where you are and am privileged to
have a view across the bay knowing you are there, less than a mile from the
shore. The horrors of what you endured
that day will forever haunt me, especially when some dumb advert or programme
shows underwater footage. I often wonder if you'd been lobster fishing from a highly populated cruise liner or were a famous star, that you'd have been left to rot amongst kelp forests. Instead, you were a hard working fisherman doing an honest day's work from a 24ft boat, the engine of which the owner persistently refused to fix. He should be behind bars for manslaughter!
As yet, only gulls and sea creatures know your whereabouts and are keeping it a well guarded secret. So be it.
In my heart, you live on and will never be forgotten dear brother. All my love and gentle thoughts remain with you Murdo xxx
