Imagine you had a son who died. I know – you don’t want to. Of course you don’t. Why would you? But walk in my shoes, just for a moment.
Imagine your son died. Imagine that the days and weeks which followed were marked by rising panic which choked the words in your throat until they escaped as wails, without form or substance. Imagine that you stayed upright each day only because you knew the days to be easier than the nights. That at night-time grief and guilt joined forces, pulling the steel band around your chest so tight you had to stand to breathe. That sleep rarely came, and that when it did, it was punctuated by such horrific images that waking again was a relief.
Imagine that people were kind, in the main. Imagine they visited, and wrote, and sent flowers. That they said the right things – and the wrong things, in some cases – and they held your hand as you cried great racking sobs of despair. They were kind when you fell apart. They understood.
Imagine then, that you had to stop talking about your son. Because how would they feel, these people, if you were forever talking about a son who died? What could they say? So imagine you fell in with convention, and now instead of flinging yourself to the floor when your child is mentioned, you smile politely and agree it’s so sad, but isn’t it wonderful how time heals all? And your nails leave perfect crescents in the soft skin of your palms, because over the years you’ve realised time heals nothing. Time has taught you to hide your grief, to repeat by rote the story of your own personal tragedy, but time has healed nothing.
Imagine his birthday. A day when perhaps it would be acceptable to mourn more openly. When perhaps you could slip off the coat you wear to protect others as much as yourself, and grieve. When you could look at his photo, touch his hair, remember the smell of his head as you held him. A day when you could shut out the world and just grieve.
Imagine that instead of doing that, you bake a cake. You make a birthday cake with five candles. You wrap a present, write a card, host a party and smile fiercely all day. You give your surviving twin the best day he can imagine and you vow that not for a second will he resent the shadow you see so clearly by his side. You make the day about him, and you apologise silently to the other boy. The boy you love just as much as the one blowing out his candles.
Happy birthday, you imagine yourself saying. Happy birthday, boys.
Imagine.