Читать книгу Get me to 21 - Gabi Lowe - Страница 6

It’s been three long excruciating years since you died, Jen. I know I have to tell your story, but it is overwhelming. I am immobilised by the enormity of it and cannot seem to start.

Help me, Jen. How can I ever do you justice? How can I find the courage to relive it? But how can I not? I have such a deep sense that your story needs to be told – to help me make sense of the suffering, to help integrate your loss into our lives, to honour your incredible legacy and celebrate the depth of the human spirit.

I’m on the beach, the sun is setting like a large red orb and my heart is aching. Warm air gently caresses my skin. I’m dizzy with the smell of salty air and my face is streaked with tears of grief.

I sway gently back and forth, hugging my body as I bury my toes deeper into the sand. I search the horizon, hoping to feel you, to hear you, when a single white feather floats to the sand.

“I am right here,” you whisper. “I am all around you. Simply tell the story.”

Here it is, the brutal truth, in all its terrible beauty.