The Legacy of loss

When you lose someone, you don’t just lose them once. You lose them over and over again.

When I saw someone walking a donkey down the street past my house, my first experience of living in a country town, I grabbed my phone to text my sister. She would’ve loved that.

*And you lose them all over again.*

In every thunderstorm, I remember my childhood best friend. How we’d hide under a blanket fort with torches and books, squealing and laughing at each thunderclap. Every moment was the only moment. All we had was right now and it felt like it would never end.

*And you lose them all over again.*

When fireworks paint the sky on New Year’s Eve and the sulfuric smell fills the air, I’m back in time, on my dad’s shoulders, head above the crowd. I can feel the excitement like I’m six years old again. I’m safe. Nurtured. Protected.

*And you lose them all over again.*

I keep my treasures in a carved wooden box.

Photographs. Letters.

Shells from the beach in my hometown, symbolic of all the connections I forged growing up.

The foreign coin that started my coin collection, a gift from my auntie’s travels.

A hot sauce sachet, the kind that my grandma never went anywhere without.

Sentimental shadows of what no longer is.

Every happy memory is followed by an unworldly pain that pushes into your lungs with every single breath. You remember.

When you lose someone, you don’t just lose them once. You lose them over and over again.