To you it’s just a handful of conkers, to me it’s a handful of beautiful now distant memories. Every autumn my grandad would go conker picking for the kids. We’d go and see him and he’d say to the kids, open that drawer in the kitchen under the fridge. And there’d be a handful of conkers in there for them..... the last time he went picking he wasn’t too well, he went on his mobility scooter and fell off it reaching for conkers and had to be helped back in it by two ladies. But he still did it for them.
It focking hurts so bad you know. Grief. All that love you can no longer give them. It eats you alive.
You’ll be ok then bam it’ll hit you in the chest out of nowhere leaving you winded. I remember the amount of brews we’d go through putting the world to rights, sitting watching the gee gees with you (horses) that time you put wolf of wall street on whilst I was there and the guy was sniffing coke off a woman’s arse, never seen you fumble with the remote like that to turn the tele over, never bloody did that in my day! You said when you asked me for a cuddle and to sit with you as it’s one of the things you missed the most being on your own was just the company and a good cuddle. I miss your corned beef hash. I miss our oxo brews. I’ve still got a case full of your unwashed clothes that I smell when it gets too much. I read yours and nanas love letters over and over and hope one day for a love like that for myself.
As long as I live, you’ll live. Through me. Through my memories.
You taught me that. You used to say to me, when I go... Don’t be sad because its what you keep in here (pointing to my heart) that counts. Thank you.