I spent the last days of summer in Cornwall with my family. The sun shone in all its splendour, and we had mostly blue skies with the odd smattering of clouds. My son and I navigated the gigantic, crashing waves of the Celtic Sea each afternoon, laughing, scared and exhilarated in equal measure. Our dog whined at the shoreline until my husband cajoled him away for a walk along the vast stretch of beach.
My son laughs at the way I dive under the waves: head down, holding my nose, ducking beneath just as they break. Apparently, this isn’t diving at all. I don’t mind. Over the years, I’ve learned from experience that when I do this, the crash of the wave is no less forceful, but I soften its landing. In between the ducking and diving, I enjoy floating as the ocean swell carries me. I can breathe easy, feeling light and free, watching my son. Taller than I am now, he ventures deeper into the water. I don’t worry as much as I used to. I know he can hold his own. Still, I watch for his head to emerge.
Back home, the sun continues to shine through these early September days, as if willing summer to stay a little longer. But the mornings and evenings require a sweater now. The air of Autumn is creeping in, whispering, back to reality, back to the rhythm of early starts, busy schedules and school days.
The absence of my younger son is amplified at this time of year. Another school year that isn’t starting for him. A familiar heaviness returns to my heart, and my body.
I work for hours on my memoir, The Biggest Little Life. An attempt, perhaps, from my mind to pull my heart along. Yet still, the questions surface. As if by being busy they wouldn’t.
What would Year Five bring for Ruairí? What would he be like? Would he still hold my hand?
I imagine him at nine years old for a while. Then I remember my little one year old who was here. Was he really here? The disbelief still shocks me sometimes.
I wonder what we were doing on this day in 2017. I scroll back through my photos to remember, and I find his little face. It was 9.14am. He was in his stroller and we were walking back from dropping his big brother at school. Ruairí was dressed in various shades of blue: a light blue bobble hat, a bib that matched it in colour, and a navy and white fleece. Blue was an adorable colour on my boy, showing off his huge, ocean-hued eyes. The bright orange stroller created a striking background. His skin had that yellow hue, a giveaway that he wasn’t well. Yet his eyes were bright, looking straight into the camera. Sinking into this memory, I drift back in time. I can almost smell his sweet, milky breath.
The next day, on the train into London, I listen to the soft sounds of Summer Portraits by Ludovico Einaudi. I wonder what he was feeling as he composed those soft and tender melodies.
I know what I am feeling as I listen. I miss you my sweet boy.
I drift again then, back in time to him. I almost miss my stop. Glancing up, I see the station name and spring from my seat and out the door just as they are closing. I go to my appointment and afterwards meet a friend for coffee and a good, honest chat about writing, motherhood and aching joints.
Walking through St Pancras station on my way home, I watch the other commuters. So many are engrossed in their phone screens. I wonder about the stories they carry, who they are, what memories they hold. Do they, too, search for their treasured memories in their photos?
My own stories start to crash into each other then, the past, the present and what would have been. In my mind, I see the waves of the Celtic Sea. Am I being carried along with the swell or am I ducking trying to soften the crash?
Tears slip quietly down my face. I am floating then, between lives.
Breathing, slow and deep.