today is a Hard Day

on death and little brothers

It’s 10am on the first of October and I’m scrolling on Pinterest trying to find a quote I can post on Instagram about death that doesn’t feel grim or cringe or like it’s been said a million times before. I realise I’m doing this because I want to let people know that today is a Hard Day for me, not because I want their attention, but because I don’t want anyone to feel bad that they have forgotten that this is a Hard Day. After all, it is mine and not theirs and I don’t expect everyone to be thinking about such a terrible thing all the time. I don’t even do that anymore.

Jimmy’s friend messages me, asking permission to post a photo commemorating four years of his death. I tell him, of course, and he tells me that he’s gutted because most of his photos got lost when something happened to his iCloud. I think about how I would explain that very sentence to a Victorian child. I see on his Instagram story that he has enough photos to make a collage - some I’ve seen before, some I haven’t - and I could cry knowing that there are people out there who hold memories of him that I don’t. These moments are the best in the world, ask anyone who’s lost someone.

My friends are there, except now we’re all in different timezones and they’re probably wondering what time to message me or how to do it in a way that won’t ruin whatever I’m doing at that given moment (they know that I’m not easily set off so any time is fine actually.) Bel bought me an orange checkered shirt with two little ducks on it because she knows he loved ducks and she knows I love orange. My family sends photos to the group chat and we all react with love hearts. There won’t be a call, these days are easier spent alone, I find. We talk about him every other day though - we don’t avoid him if that’s what you’re thinking. I send Josh a video I found from when we were in India together that I don’t think he’s seen. In it, Jimmy is holding his GoPro and we are all dancing and smiling and sweating. At the end of the party, James would tell me, slightly drunk from the top bunk in our hostel, that he just had the best night of his life. I thank myself every day that I stayed sober enough to remember this moment.

Just like in India, things get bad, they get better, and then they get bad again. I think this is just how life goes after you lose your little brother. You learn that you have about four months of people remembering and checking in after the funeral, and then of course, we all go back to our own lives in the best way we can, and that’s actually a relief. You have a breakdown, you phoenix, and then you level out for a while, waiting for it all to happen again but hoping it won't. Four years later you will be lying in a bed in Lisbon after spending a weekend in France, cheersing to him over Tapas with friends that never even met him, wondering why the hell you’re scrolling on Pinterest trying to find a quote about death that doesn’t feel grim or cringe or like it’s been said a million times before.

So instead of posting on Instagram, I’m writing this, to you. If you’re reading this and you knew Jimmy, please think about him today. If you’re reading this and you didn’t, think about someone you love or you’ve lost, or your brothers or your friends. And thank you for giving me a place to write about this where I’m not going to have to read a bunch of comments on an Instagram post about how the good die young.

Luce xxxx