It’s odd how familiar our photos of Trev are becoming to me. I’ve looked at the last sets of photos we have of him hundreds of times now – the ones from Boxing Day and the ones from late October when we all met Isabel, my niece, for the first time.
Those are the… I was going to say “most recent” but “last” is technically more accurate. Those are the last ones we have of Trev, and I’ve looked at them all far more times than any photo before. With other people’s photos there’s a “churn”, a replacement of older photos with newer ones, but as time goes on it strikes you that these are it, now: these are our memories of Trev and there aren’t any newer ones coming. That’s why they’re becoming more familiar than any others.
It sounds like a strange thing to say but what I miss most is the future of Trev: all that time we were going to spend together and all the fun we might have had. I don’t feel robbed of the past, I feel robbed of the future with him – of time, something I blithely assumed we had so much of. With Trev gone that future seems to stretch out in front of us a just little less hopeful and a little less friendly. The realisation that time is not something you can rely on.
The last week or so I’ve been mostly OK – thinking of Trev a few times a day not in a sad way but…well, just remembering his voice and things we did together over the years. It genuinely felt as though things were almost OK.
They’re not though. They’re better than they were and continuing, slowly, to heal. But they’re not OK.