Wierdly, today has been a good one, I went to a friend house and the younger kids did colouring and crafts based around the letter A, then we had lunch and even ended up for tea. In Home Ed terms and just general terms its been a lovely day.
Then came this evening, Rye was in chatterbox mode and despite eating two jacket potatoes, also ate nearly an entire pizza (homemade) to himself. I'd put a West Wing dvd on, and Rye just kept chattering away, telling me how he'd enjoyed today, talking about himself in the 3rd person, as he does etc, and I dunno this evening I found his chatter very tiring. So I had a glass of wine with my portion of the pizza.
Still he kept chattering, so I had some pear cider too, asked him to be quiet, but yet he still kept chattering, until in th eend I lost my rag and sent him to bed.
Bless him, obviously shattered from the day, (and he has looked tired most of the day), I found him in his bed asleep, undressed and nappy on, he barely woke. I gave him a kiss and then sat there on his bed looking at him, loving my beautiful boy and then the tears started.
I thanks the Gods my mum is not alive to witness another of her sons dying. Logic tells me if she were still alive Peter would not have done this anyway, but logic is famously fecked up when one is grieving, and no matter how much i tell myself I no longer really knew Peter, that he was more stranger than brother... he WAS and IS my brother. I may suspect that had I'd been the one to die, than he wouldn't have come to my funeral. I'm sad he never knew me as the person I have become, I have changed a hell of a lot over the years - so I suppose there is a lot of sadness that Peter only ever knew the immature, somewhat selfish, resentful, thought I knew it all, me. **smile** And Peter was a great know it all too - once he formed an opinon he never changed it - even if he was wrong. He was kinda stubborn like that - but I guess that is what gave him his great wit.
Not entirely sure why, but the one image that stays with me, is when we were both a part of the pool league, and we were playing speed pool, after a tourament at or local pub. Peter was leaping around the table, and someone commented he looked like a prancing ballerina - and he did too. I keep seeing that again and again. Perhaps because it's when we were close, perhaps because he was alive and enjoying life then - probably a good memory to hold onto - rather than what he became, and the depression that he must have had, and, of course, the way he died and the length it took for him to be found.
So yeah, alcohol, bad idea.. slightly pissed, ramblilng, and tearful.
There again better than focusing on the fall out between us, and the hateful words we said to each other, or that I'd planned to drop by again on the way back from the Scotland trip and bang on the door.
How the hell do you let someone go you lost a decade ago, but always hoped you'd get back?
