This morning I woke up early, and felt a gentle sadness that this is our first Christmas without her. I've written about her illness and my memories of her. The knowing but not quite believing she's gone is something that has marked the months since her death. I made a heart-shaped, mossy wreath and took it to her grave this morning, and I'm meeting her mum later in the cafe where Helen and I used to meet (moss symbolises maternal love in the language of flowers). I haven't been there since she died, and I think a part of me will be expecting her to walk through the door.
I'm sad I won't see her smile, her pretty writing on my Christmas card, the sparkle in her blue eyes when she decided to have a kir royale or a mimosa instead of a coffee or tea. I'm sad we won't wait for the bus together at the same bus stop where we used to wait when we worked together as teenagers. I'm sad that instead of wrapping up a present for Helen yesterday, I was wrapping presents for her sweet nieces who've never had a Christmas without her.
Last year I watched The Snowman like I do every year, but the ending had me in tears like it never had before. It's funny - we did a play of The Snowman at primary school and I played the boy, but that was back when I didn't really understand the ending.
There's comfort in crying about people you've loved and lost, and I've already cried a few times over the last week when I've talked about Helen. I was lucky to have had her as a friend for so long. I felt her love a few months ago when I had a big birthday, and I am sure I will feel her love this Christmas. I am lucky that I am still close to her family, and I can share the love with them. And I am lucky to have other friends and family who have made me feel so loved over the last few months.
I hope you have a wonderful Christmas, full of joy and love.
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