One Day in June

Please note: this piece contains descriptions of loss that some readers may find upsetting.

I planned to tell a glad tale.

A tale of falling in love with a place,

and of love growing deeper and stronger with the years.

But it’s the sad story that wants to be told.

It was the middle of June, a sunny afternoon.

I was working in the garden

when two young policemen walked up to the gate.

‘Oh no, Mum’s had an accident,’ I thought,

wiping my hands on my jeans.

But it wasn’t her.

They had solemn eyes and hats tucked under their arms.

Was I the owner of such-and-such a car?

‘Yes,’ I said.

Had I given permission for someone else to drive my car?

‘Yes, my daughter,’ I said.

Could I please confirm her name?

That’s when time and the world stopped.

My whole body, all my senses, were suddenly numbed.

They made me tea, fetched my neighbour, said they’d phone my GP.

But I shook my head.

I didn’t want tranquillisers.

I couldn’t explain, but I knew I had to feel it, whatever came.

My tea turned cold and they made me more.

Who did I need to inform? Could they make the calls?

I shook my head again.

I had to phone my daughter’s dad

but I knew I must do it myself.

I told him she’d had an accident.

‘Is it bad?’ he said, hoping against hope.

How could I put the word died, death or dead, alongside her name?

‘It’s the worst,’ I said.

He’d phone her older sister, but not today.

It was the end-of-term party

and we mustn’t spoil her fun with her friends.

Someone intervened, luckily: we should tell her now.

If we waited till morning,

how did we think she’d feel about partying

when her sister was dead and we knew?

We couldn’t protect her from the facts,

we couldn’t protect her from grief.

Then there were others to inform.

Eventually, I was alone.

I stood outside her room,

but I couldn’t face going in.

I took her t-shirt from the basket

and put it on and went to bed,

comforted by her sweat and scent.

I cried myself to sleep, and when I woke

I cried myself to sleep again.

The next day dawned and I named it Day One.

The beginning of my new life.

Grieving, coping, failing to cope, coping again.

What does everyone assume

when a teenage driver dies on the road?

They’ve been taking risks, doing drugs, drinking,

speeding, showing off to friends?

But she wasn’t doing any of those things.

We went to the scene of the crash and the officer talked it through.

‘She made a minor error of judgement,’ he said.

On the stone dyke, there were wilted flowers.

I wished and wished I hadn’t lent her my car.

I wished it for weeks and weeks and weeks.

People didn’t mean to hurt, but they said the wrong thing.

For example, about the car.

For example, ‘What a waste!’

It made me angry.

Just because her life was short, it doesn’t mean it was wasted.

She loved and was loved.

She’s in hearts and memories.

She’s remembered vividly

sometimes with laughter, sometimes with tears,

sometimes wistfully.

People tried to be entertaining

keen for us to ‘get over it’

and stop the pain.

Or they pretended not to see us

and crossed the street.

The hours passed.

First birthday, first Christmas,

first Hogmanay, all came and went.

Two months before the anniversary

I was exhausted, aching, lying in bed.

It took time to understand

that it wasn’t flu but grief.

Dread of the deathday

fearful anticipation

the reverse of excitement

for a birthday celebration.

And outside it was Spring!

The days were lengthening!

Lambs in the fields,

buds opening, birds building and singing,

primroses, bluebells, windflowers, lupins,

beetles, bees, tadpoles and larvae,

and the bright greens of leaves unfolding.

But I couldn’t enjoy them.

Laid low by grief

with a cold stone under my ribs,

how could I feel anything?

The most beautiful months had gone to waste.

If she had to die,

why did it have to be June?

Why not January?

And year after year

when the precious months came round

my heart was turned to stone

and the bitter thoughts returned.

That’s how it was.

But it’s changed.

Now my heart lifts for the lengthening days

and the promise and beauty of May and June

and when the dread comes

as it always will

they help me through.

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