Ode

The other day I was sitting on a chair, my foot resting in the air so as to take the pressure off my heel, which has, mercifully, healed from the fracture. Recovery is slow, though; the muscles around my foot are weak and it hurts to walk. So, I’m taking things slowly, doing exercises to rebuild strength and resting as much as possible - that is, sitting on the floor with the kids or, on this occasion, a chair besides the kitchen sink. Walt toddled over to where I was sitting with a book in his hands and asked me to read to him. He climbed onto the chair, saying “snuggle up” as he placed his body against mine, and I started reading. A few pages in there was a drawing of a piano. We have a piano in our house. It belonged to my brother, David. David was a musician - a composer, and very talented. Walt knows David played the piano. We listen to David’s music, and afterwards Walt will run to find photographs of David that are hanging on our walls. On this day, he saw the piano in the book and said “Uncle David”. He then looked at me and told me he wanted Uncle David to come inside the house.

Hearing my kids talk about my brother, who died thirteen years ago today, leaves me feeling a very particular sort of pain. There’s longing - for them to know him, for him to know them, and for David to have had the chance to experience parenthood. And then there’s fear - fear that they might one day experience the pain of losing a sibling, fear that I might experience the pain of losing a child, and fear that they might have to endure the loss of Ben or me. That fear is agonising. And up until recently the way I would manage those utterly terrifying thoughts was to swiftly push them aside and redirect my attention. Earlier this year that stopped working, and I broke open.

And so, I started acknowledging my fears. I gained perspective. I also learnt to breathe (see this post). And now, after months and months of living and breathing and living and breathing I can sit with those thoughts without panicking. When my kids (or other people) talk about my brother or my sister-in-law I no longer find it triggering. There’s still longing and fear because I think those feelings will always be there; that’s just how it is when you experience life-shattering loss. But it’s different now. The fear feels somewhat muted; it doesn’t take me away from the present. I can listen to my little boy, sitting to my side, snuggled up as close as possible, telling me that he wants to see my brother, and feel glad for the opportunity to talk about it.

“You want Uncle David to come in the house”, I said. “I do, too. I wish that he could come and visit, but he died. His body isn’t here anymore, so we don’t get to see him” (kids need concrete language). Walt noticed my tears and I told him that I was crying because I was sad that we can’t see David. “But we have pictures”, I said after a little while. “And his piano”. Walt then jumped off the chair and ran down the hallway to David’s piano. We sat and played a tune - me rather poorly (I wish I didn’t quit my lessons when I did), and him with surprising restraint.

When Joan came home from kinder I played her one of David’s songs. It’s called Ode, and it’s my favourite of all his compositions. Together we danced in the kitchen. And in that moment I felt longing. I’m sure fear was there somewhere too, tangled up in it all. But mostly I remember feeling awe at my brother’s talent. Pride, too. And gratitude, that I am able to share David’s music with my kids. His body isn’t here but his music is.

You can hear a bit of Ode for yourself - go to my Instagram page and scroll along the highlights videos. It really is a beautiful piece of music. In the video you will see baby Walt asleep on my chest.

Heidi xo