Sometimes I am not ready

My uncle Brian died on New Year's Eve, at home in his house by the sea, his family beside him holding his hand.

I am not sure I am ready to say goodbye, but I have no choice. Somehow, even though we knew, his death snuck up on me, took me days to process. Sitting on the beach with Lulu after hearing the news, it seemed farfetched and surreal.

I am not ready never to hear his laughter again, not ready never to see his smile again. I am not ready to sit at his table and never hear his stories again, walk along the beach with the wind at our back, and tease him when he falls asleep in his chair.

I am unable to find any words to try to soothe their broken hearts. Somehow, my words feel heavy, fall out of my mouth uncouth and uncut, I am ill prepared for this. For the sadness in my cousin's voice. Grief is selfish, it does not allow for us to share it amongst ourselves. It is cold and brutal and raw.

"He looks so handsome in his dark suit," my aunt tells my mother, voices crackling over long distance telephone lines. She is strong, my aunt.

Before he fell ill, my uncle bought new shoes. He liked nice things, worked hard, lived full. He will wear those new shoes Friday to Llandaff Cathedral and a celebration of his life.

My father reminds me of a prank he and my uncle played when they were kids, at the same cathedral which made the headlines of the South Wales Echo.

Mischevious to the end, I think he would have gotten a kick out of that.