Daniel. I say your name every day when I put your neck chain on. You left it in the car. It is chunky and silver and plain, and a constant tactile and visual reminder of you. It’s with me everywhere I go.
You’ve been gone three years now and for me the worst has passed. I took a winter off work and sat alone in my sadness. I had to. I didn’t just lose you, I lost how things might have been, how things were supposed to be. I had to grieve for that too. It took me a while to realise this, and to make peace with how I simply have no control over so many things in life and in death — most of it is in the hands of God, or fate, or however else people choose to frame this beautiful, terrifying existence we are all born into.
This is one of my favourite photos of you. You’re aged eight or nine, and we’re on the very beach where you would disappear a decade later. I will never go back there. You’re here with me, around my neck, in my chest. Daniel. My sweet boy. I miss you.
