A day like any other day

 Today is exactly two years since Cro, my wife and love, died. She had been ill, as most of you will know, with lung cancer for eleven months. She died at seven o'clock on a glorious July 5th evening surrounded by us, her family. 

But in most ways it is a day like any other day and of course it is a day that the person it refers to doesn't know about. You know your birthday and your wedding anniversary and your children's birthdays, but only we who are left will know and celebrate this anniversary. And even though today marks the point at which we can say 'A whole two years! Can that be true?', it is in reality the same for me as the other seven-hundred-and-odd days that have passed since Cro died. But not in a bad way.

Speaking for me alone, when I think of Cro and of the 23 years we spent together, the overwhelming feeling is one of gratitude and joy. How can I let the fact that Cro died somehow undo all the good that came in her life and our lives together? I could say 'I wish you were still alive' but she was a massive realist, from day one. She would probably reply "I sort of am, because I am not really dead till people have forgotten me. And I see that you and lots of other people have not". 

When we publish Cro's collection of poems later this year, you will also remember that she thought a lot about the nature of death, and being dead, and life also. She even wrote a poem about the kind of ghost that she would be, so I know who to look out for. She was hugely aware that for all the 'miracle of new life' that we celebrate when a baby is born, there is a just as miraculous thing that happens when one of us dies. How can all that knowledge and connection and vast vista of memories just go? Disappear? Am I just that collection of impulses and chemicals in my body. Is that Cro? Is that Patrick?

And her answer, and mine too, would be 'Yes'. And when you die you die. And for that fact, would you write off all the joy of life and love and wonder and knowledge? It's not a tragedy that we are mortal, it just means the world is not two miles deep in all the creatures that have ever lived, and we can open up the possibility of evolving, in any way that seems to work.  I am sure that she would have the idea that all of our mortal transience can make life more enjoyable. And when I hear of another Silicon Valley billionaire trying to live for ever I think: "You just don't get this do you?".

So this evening, at seven o' clock, I will be drinking Cro's favourite tipple, and thinking of all that she, and I, and her family, and her friends did. And anyone who is suitably near a bottle and glass I would ask to do the same. And even though it is a day of note and a day to note, it is not really a special day. Because to Cro each day was a special day, from a beautiful peach dawn to a walk with friends, to a quiet glass with her paramour, to a starry night with Orion ramping overhead. And this day is a special day, and tomorrow, and all my days and your days till we join her. Drink up and drink deep!