Compassion, Winter 2021

Winter 2021 - Compassion | www.tcf.org.uk 13 There were times I wished I had someone else to play with at home, someone else to see a different side to discussions besides my parents’ united front. But I had Fighting Fantasy books to read, and friends to see. Sometimes I asked about him, but usually I didn’t. I can’t speak for other children who lost a sibling. Most will have had far more direct contact with their brother or sister. But I never felt particularly different, or that our family was a sad one. I remember talking about crying with my dad one day, by the time I’d become a big enough boy to rarely shed tears, and asking whether he cried when David died. He said he had, and I at once felt understanding and surprise – at the time I didn’t appreciate the scale of their loss. Now I’m a parent, I’m a big enough boy to shed tears with a regularity that would have shocked the younger me. And I see that there was a sorrow in me too, a sadness for what might have been, for the David I could have known. I think back to the times I used to look at that picture and feel a tremble inside. My parents recently dug out some old video footage of them, David and some family friends. It had been too painful for them to watch before. And so we watched it together, and my mum and dad talked about him, their voices calm but stretched. I’ve sometimes wondered if we could have made him a bigger part of our shared lives, but equally being in an environment that acknowledged him but that did not feel mournful was probably good for me. A young child like me, lucky enough to grow up in a stable, loving family, sees their parents and thinks of strength, not grief. I miss David, even if I don’t quite know what I’m missing. Life without him has been all I’ve known – but I’ll always have quiet moments when I think of that picture, and of him, and say his name to my children, so they have a sense of knowing him too. James Smart