He would have started his day with the fresh excitement of boyhood: desperate for those presents, that cake, that party.
He would have been at school: a term time birthday child unlike his mother. How would he have endured the birthday beats there? What would he look like in his school uniform? Would he have been much liked by the playground bastards?
Death is a dirty full-stop. A punctuation mark that punctures the soft flesh of possibility. Once the key has been pressed and it’s been wallop-printed to the paper with its metal-arm clank, no more questions can be answered and nothing can progress beyond this point.
Though I can describe him to you in the minutest of details, from the image of him that continues to grow in my mind, I won’t ever really know what his voice sounds like. What colour his eyes really would have been. Whether he really would have looked like that little boy in the advert with the Smith’s song playing in the background. Instead, his life plays out in my prose. Like a novel that no-one can read but me.
So the world turns and we are dragged forever forward, whether we like it or not. Though he makes sure that the space he left unoccupied, screams out in decibels too painful to ignore: I am still the only one who can really hear it. So I cram the space with words and plastic ornaments that tastelessly overpopulate the tiny death-garden where he should never be.
Six years on and my little boy and I are no longer timid about the story he has to tell or the existence he did once have. No longer scared of how others will feel when we mention it. So we do mention it, all the fucking time. Not to ram it down people’s throats but to keep him alive, in the only way that we can.
6 years in this weird quiet sort of hell and I can’t say that it’s been wasted time. There are things I’ve learnt that I would never have otherwise known. I’ve learnt that some mothers are pack animals and they will drive the weaker of us from their group for fear that the same will happen to them. I’ve decided that these women are worthy of my contempt. I’ve learnt that if people can’t truly share in your grief then you can’t truly share in their happiness. I now see how cruel social media and the HD of other people’s perfect lives can be when you’re feeling particularly low. I know that people have no idea how to speak of pain or sadness when it’s not something they can feel directly and that their fear of a slightly awkward situation will rob them of a compassion that could have been so beautifully shared. I’ve learnt that no matter how much ‘progress’ I make, part of me will always be stuck in a hospital corridor somewhere in 2011 screaming for my baby, whilst part of me lives for the future where I have seen all there is to see and lived to tell the tale. I’ve learnt that things can be taken in the blink of an eye for no reason at all and that we just have to treasure the shit out of them whilst they are with us. Most of all, I have learnt that it’s ok to be a little broken and a little less perfect when you have suffered something like this and I know now how to forgive myself for my occasional fury – after all, there are plenty of people ready to stick the boot in, why I should I be one of them?
So I shake off my inhibitions and I open my mouth wide and proud, with the cherry lips of a choirgirl, nose to the sky and I sing my version of the Murderdolls song directly to him: “you’re six, motherfucker six”. And although it’s an entirely inappropriate song for a child, I sing it to him just the same. Because what harm can it do now? And besides, I know he would have loved it.
It’s not a birthday in the conventional sense, no. But it’s still a birthday none the less. And I wish so hard he was here. Here to meet his hairy 4-legged brothers. Here to make me feel almost normal again. Here, with me, so I can watch him live and grow and be brilliant in the anarchy I know he would have caused. But another thing I’ve learnt in life is this: it doesn’t really matter how many candles you blow out, some wishes still never come true.