Grief is still a surprise to me. Shadowy and unpredictable, catching you off guard, triggered by connections you had momentarily forgotten.
My brother riding his bicycle from Clayton to Hawthorn, carrying on it a very large, very heavy stone mortar and pestle, a birthday or Christmas present for me when Ella was only a few months old. A similar journey made from Clayton to Blackburn, when Ella was a little older, about two years old, carrying a children's carpet, rolled and slung across his handle bars.
Regret is a terrible thing and ultimately pointless, it serves no purpose to he or I.
Tonight I was preparing a marinade in my mortar and pestle, one that I struggle to even lift from the cupboard, let alone carry on the handle bars of any bike. Mike came flooding into my mind, my heart and the tears flowed. I wished, for those moments, that I'd done more, been there more, made more of a difference to his life. Of course that's silly, because he loved me, we were connected, we shared what we chose to share with each other when we had nothing but time. I missed him though, at that very moment, when I remembered those and other things he'd done for me in my life, that perhaps I didn't appreciate as much as I could have at the time.
We can't do over, we can't bring those we love back, not even for a moment, and as painful as those moments can be, for those moments he felt more than just a shadow, those memories so vivid and so present, that he seemed somehow here again. There was nothing either of us did wrong, or shouldn't have said, not ever, but I just wished for
more, that I'd appreciated
more and been more present, in that moment, in that instant of regret, of missing him.
