Firsts

~content warning for death & grief~

The best advice about grief I have ever been given is

There will be a lot of firsts. And they will hurt. But you only have to do each first once, and the second time it isn't okay, it still hurts, but it isn't a first.

There is the first night, when you can't sleep, because your tummy's all tangled up and your head aches and this world isn't fair, isn't fair, isn't fair.

There is the first morning, when you wake up, and you have to remember. You have to lie there, and realise, and it hurts all over again.

There is the first day, the first whole day of loss, the first whole day that is entirely different to anything that has ever been, because anything that has ever been was either before, or during. This is after.

The first week, when you get back to the day, and you stand and look into the past, like a runner looking back at the course you have just run, breathless and unsure of how they got there. It's hard to remember your legs, when you're still a tangled up ball of jelly, and you can't feel your limbs- but it was your legs, they carried you.

The first month. The first day you wake up, and look at the date, and realise. It has been a month. We measure time, and a whole, significant measurement has gone by. It has been that long.

It is not all about the passing of time.

There is the first time you are all together, but you are not, because you can never be all together again, and even when you laugh you feel wrong, even when you're trying to do the best you can, you feel wrong, because you are all together but you can never be all together again.

There is the first celebration, when you know everyone else is laughing and singing, and you have to lay the table, and you suddenly realise that you have never been luckier that this day has been transient, because it makes the absence slightly less noticeable. You could not have set that table if it had been the same number every year, suddenly minus one.

There is the first time you have to tell someone, after the phone call, when you have to go back in and talk about what you've just been told, in a voice you will never recognise; the first time that someone who did not know what was happening must find some way to help you, when you both know there's nothing that can be done now but to hold your breath as the tide comes in.

There is the first time you tell someone the same thing you have always said, the lines you have written since childhood, for as long as you can remember; and realise, after you said it, that whilst it may be true, it is not the same in this linear world. Otherwise, the first time you adjust what you say, and that hurts, maybe even more; you wonder why there is a script to all of this, why you hae to lie to save the feelings of others- but you go along with it anyway, because the questions that come from breaking the script will maybe be worse.

Some of them, you do not even think about, until they happen.

The first time you break down, and you can't stop crying, and all you can do is talk and talk about all the things you've never spoken about before, all the things that you didn't realise were important until, suddenly, they're all you can think about.

The first time you see someone who reminds you of them, and you have a split-second where that's okay, it's almost funny- and then you realise, you remember, and you get so angry, because that was his smile, it's not theirs, but other people still get that, still get to see this man walk through the front door with a smile a little like his.

The first time something unique about them comes up in conversation, and you briefly think that you're looking forwards to quizzing them more on that sometime- and it hits you, again, that you can't. That you will never discuss philosophy with him. That you will never experience his homemade cocktails. That you always assumed he'd be there, and so you never needed him; you assumed there'd be a lifetime for growing up and learning- and there was, but it wasn't yours.

There are firsts yet to come.

The first birthday, the anniversary of the day they were born- figuring out how to celebrate it now they're not here, wanting to mark even more their birth, because you need to emphasise that they were here. That he was born, that he walked upon this earth.

The first anniversary since the day the world came crashing down. The day you are constantly reminded of everything that happened the year before- clock-watching, following the movements of a ghost; holding your breath, at the very moment 'you were here a year ago' ceases to be true. Remembering that, for everyone else, this is just another day. Just another day.

There is a first for everything.

The first time you realise that there are many firsts, more than you can count. That they will all hurt, a lot. But, that you only have to do each first once. The second time it isn't okay, it still hurts: but it's not a first.