Bridget Hart

The sky is an important symbol to me, the massiveness, the possibilities of new lives, old ones colliding into cloud formations, touched pink and orange because they are at peace. I sat and watched such a sky. It helped that the midlands is so level, the sky looks larger. Today was a fine example of the biggest oil painting I would ever sit under. Whilst rush hours commenced and people without loss carried on home, or to work, I sat alone on a bench, smoking a roll up and searching for you in the sky. I hoped to see you, you weren’t dead long which meant your soul was still nearby maybe, lingering until your loved ones left the hospital. As your parents packed up your bags around your dead body I went off to be alone. I felt the pull, the child mode kicking. The cigarette was not particularly enjoyable, it was just a prop for the dissociative drama that was the first few moments of life without you. The sky was turning darker, the clouds were monstrous, pink tinged with the rich blue sky behind it, like the first view of Cinderella’s castle at Disney World. It was a marvel to hold: the early rising winter North Star. I imagined your true self weightless, being carried by a hundred magpies over Norwich, over the sea, over us. Heading to that star. Second one to the right and straight on til’ morning. Heaven is not real, but you and I have long put our faith and time into imaginary worlds, Neverland, Neo-LA, Planet X, Tatooine, us. In those infinite realities time was not linear, disease was something we gave to minor roles, for us to work out our pre-emptive grief. I tricked emotions, however unstable, into wearing themselves out in these spaces. The lasting effect however has just given me more to mourn over.

The realities we created for ourselves were closed. The gates shut. Half of the occupants slaughtered. Vanished. My occupants couldn’t exist without the validation of yours so soon they disappeared too. The moment you ‘died’ (I say it like that because I think you were gone before they switched off the machine) I saw the faces of our selves, our characters in the sky. Like bloody Mufasa or something. They were smiling, perhaps because they could finally combine back into one soul that was free of illness, judgement and family obligation. I was happy that you weren’t in pain anymore but I was alone. Staring into those clouds as the sun set was like standing on the edge of a very deep dark hole, it did not threaten to swallow me but simply said ‘I am here when you are ready’.

I have been down that hole a few times since this moment, after more people left me, I changed so much without giving permission. I didn’t know how to be alive: other people told me how to do it, and how I was doing it wrong. Grief is not something you learn like manners, it is instinctive, unpredictable and disarming. I have been grieving for you this whole time, behind surviving. I do not believe this bullshit about you being an angel, or ‘with me always in my heart’. That’s crap, I know you thought that too. All I have is this made up world, a few selfies and this pull, like a phantom limb, tugging at me to follow you into the sky.