When you came home, your mother placed me in my arms. You
had lots of hair and you were a bit orange in colour. You were four days old.
Henry the Bernese Mountain Dog was really interested in you. His 55 kilos to
your three and a little bit. Henry thought you were awesome from the minute he
set eyes on you. So did I.
You cried for a good part of the night on that first night
home, Your poor mum. Thankfully you settled down quickly after that. You were a
lovely baby.
When you got a bit older, you were a complete daredevil - when you were a baby, we couldn’t push you
high enough on the swing.
You were always a bit crazy and a bit creative, even as a
young child.
When I came to stay, you’d come and have a cuddle with me in
the morning. I used to love that. Just you, me and the very large and
over-exuberant dog. This is what family is all about. Oh, by the way, you had terrible breath, but
you were instantly forgiven for this.
When your sister came along, you were the most doting
sibling I’d ever seen. The two of you shared a bed for many years. It was so
sweet. Your sister was your shadow for much of your life.
I remember walking around your grandmother’s front lawn when
you were a toddler. I loved having to tell you not to touch the roo poo.
You were always happy. You were arty and quite sensitive,
but not in the cry baby way. I liked that about you.
You always greeted me with a big hug, even when you were going into your
teenage years.
I remember using you for my squat weight when you were about
ten. The perfect 30 kilo bag to chuck over my shoulder. We giggled about that.
I loved the feel of your hair when you let me brush it, all
thick and silky and straight. You got your mum’s hair. You were lucky.
I remember your big brown eyes and your long, tapering
fingers. Artists hands. You loved art.
I hear Korean pop music now and I don’t go to stick my fingers
down my throat any more, even though I was looking forward to teaching you about real music.
I remember singing “Dumb Ways to Die” with your sister at
the Christmas table a few years ago. Your grandparents thought we were mad.
I try not to remember what chemo was like for you, the
energy sapped from your young body, robbing your of your hair and your
strength. Thankfully it didn’t take away your will to fight and your sense of
humour. You’re one of the bravest people I know.
I try to not remember the last time I saw you. Straight out
of hospital, pale, weakened and like something
out of a concentration camp. I cried all the way down to your
grandmother’s and then some more.
I also try not to remember what happened later. The weeks in
intensive care and the second hand reports of horrors that you wouldn’t wish on
your worst enemy.
I also remember the sense of relief when your grandmother told me that you didn’t have
to fight any more and the battle was over.
All I can do now is remember how much I love you. It’s been
six months today since you went away.
But you haven’t really gone at all.
Because I remember.
That is beautiful, and made me cry. I am still so, so sorry. 6 months. Wow. Hugs to you all.
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