Last week I was heading into London to get my hair cut, I parked my car at the station and headed over the footbridge, there is a lovely view for miles down the straight track, with the South Downs in one direction and the castle in the distance in the other. But last week, there was young man standing crying, and I mean really crying. His face was red, and his eyes were that blotchy swollenness, that told me he’d been sobbing for ages. 

I stopped and asked him if he was okay, and the flood gates opened as he cried even harder while he told me his father had died and he just couldn’t stop the tide of grief, it was constant, and he was broken with abject sadness. 

I noticed someone from the station staff edging closer, and I realised the potential seriousness of the situation. But I kept talking to him, and I gave him a hug and said how sorry I was, and said he was obviously really close to his dad, and how special he must have been to him. He then told me, that his father had passed two years ago, and he just was not getting beyond his overwhelming sadness. I could see the panic in his face, as he felt literally trapped and had no way of knowing which way to go with his pain.

I shared with him my own sorrow, that my father had died some years ago and that grief has no timeline and it’s always okay to cry and to miss someone so much your heart feels like it’s cracking open. How the smallest things will set you off at random, for me it could be at a supermarket and seeing a massive bar of Cadburys wholenut, my father’s favourite, or just simply out of the blue for no reason other than my eyes just decided to leak like their life depended on it. The times I have stood and turned my face away from others, as the loss of my father was overwhelming, not wanting to share my hearbreak. But it’s okay, to miss someone you loved that much. 

I offered him my Mars bar as by this point, I was trying to keep him talking and distract him; he had a dairy allergy. From my other pocket I produced an apple… he laughed a little through his tears.  I said I always have a small buffet on me for emergencies, you never know when you need a snack. 

I asked him which train he was getting, and it was the same as me, so I asked if he’d walk with me (sneaky distraction technique) as I had bad knees after my surgery. As we walked, he told me how he used to work with his father, and they lived together and bit by bit the love he had for him just spilled out of his every word. He was absolutely broken with grief. A few more words and tears, and he told me he was going into London for a medical appointment as he’d injured his neck in a bike accident years ago, his dad would have gone with him, they’d have had a day out. Now he was on his own. If you could ever tangibly feel sorrow, it was in that moment. 

The train came and we got on, I could see he wanted to sit alone so I just sat a few rows along and let him know if he wanted to come and sit with me if he just wanted the company that was okay. He showed me a photo of him and his father, must have been a family wedding, peas in a pod and both so happy. I showed him one of my papa and me, and it all of a sudden reminded me that this month was the anniversary of his death. In that second, I realised that I hadn’t just helped him, he’d helped me as well. By sharing my experience of grief, I’d put into words how I feel and also how I try and manage those raw emotions when they do hit me. And they still do. Often.

He wanted to know if it gets easier, not really, I replied, but somehow you learn to cope with it, most of the time. But there are also days when it just is okay to cry and feel that your heart won’t be the same ever again. I like to think it won’t, in a way I think that’s how it should be, when someone you loved that much passes. 

One of my favourite films has a quote at the end, which puts this into far better words than I can … and I’ll paraphrase, as it’s in Italian;

The secret of memories, is that everyone leaves a trace of themselves with you.

That way you are never alone. 

(from La Finestra di Fronte)

They say that the most important light is the one that you cannot see. That there is so much to life that goes unnoticed, and while it’s unbelievably hard some days to recognise positivity, it’s there. There will be days when that light helps you go forwards, like some sneaky torch just leading you on a little bit nearer to the hope that life can wrap sunshine all around you. But also, that loving someone and missing them is entirely okay, just know that there will be days when you can feel life is good.

If I had words to sing a day for you

I’d sing you a morning golden and new

I would make this day last for all time

Give you a night, deep in moonshine

By Scott Fitzgerald