THERE'S NO PESTO

Look at you. You are six years old. Your head pressed against the car window, humming, ‘Shakira, Shakira, my hips don’t lie, Shakira, Shakira.’ You’re looking at the countryside whizzing by. Are you comparing it to Ireland? Or are you thinking of meeting your cousins? The excitement when the holiday was booked. Two weeks camping. Four families. The brochure promises fun for all. Swimming pools, minigolf, rodeo shows, trips to local beaches, shows for the kids every night.

Look at me, taking a breather. You are six years old. I’m in a restaurant with my friends. We turn our phones off with a collective sigh and raise our glasses to a well-deserved break from family life. The meal is over, it’s time to go home, and we all turn our phones back on.

Ten missed calls. Trembling fingers, I dial Ciara.

‘What’s wrong, are you hurt?’‘

No, I’m fine.’‘Is somebody hurt?’‘No.’‘Then what’s wrong?’‘There’s no pesto.’‘What!’‘There’s no pesto.’‘What? No pesto!’

Silence.

‘Ciara, it’s midnight. The shops are shut.’

Small person. Small voice. ‘There’s no pesto.’

Look at you, aged twelve. You are smiling for the camera with a flower in your hair. Full of excitement, it’s the start of a new chapter in your life. Blue skirt, grey jumper, the Loreto emblem — your new school. Your dyslexia made school a challenge, but academics were only a minor part of your school day. It was friendship that pulled you to school every day — a social butterfly. You walked into a classroom and anyone you sat beside, by the end of the class, you’d sussed out their whole life story. You cherished everyone you met. You embraced their differences, and not only had you the courage to stand up for yourself, but the courage to stand up for others. You accepted everyone and found something positive in everyone.

Look at us. You are fourteen. We’re in the car singing A Thousand Miles. You say that’s our song and we turn the radio up full volume.

Look at us. You are sixteen. We’re on the train, going to Dublin for your appointment — but it’s not really about that. It’s about spending the day together. Shopping. Lunch. You telling me those runners are really lovely, of course they suit me. No, no, I’m not too old. You mutter under your breath that you might let me wear them the odd time. Then you smile at me. How could I refuse?

You are seventeen. You are still. Look at us — me, Dad, your brothers. Crying. Numb with shock. Disbelief. Cold. This happens to other people. Not us. Not me. The priest speaks. Your friends go up to the altar one by one, tears in their throats, trying to be strong, to honour you, to say what a beautiful, funny, best friend they have lost. You were a best friend to each one of them. The church is full. Kodaline’s appearance was kept a secret. They all came for you, united in grief.

I am in your room. I am lost. Minimalism is not a word that describes you. Piles of clothes, shoes, bags, shoeboxes, shopping bags. Jack Wills. Abercrombie & Fitch. Your first teddy. Notebooks, diaries, journals. I read them all. Your dreams. Your shopping lists. Your bucket lists. At first, innocent lists — sneak out and stay out all night, go to Dublin on the train — then bigger ones: being a lifeguard on Bondi Beach. Countries you wanted to see. Sketches of clothes. You designed clothes. I never knew that.

A dress with labels. White lace. A sweetheart neckline. A mermaid tail. Simple but elegant — your wedding dress.

Look at you in St Anne’s Park, on two large screens, one on either side of the Kodaline stage. You are smiling, laughing. Fifteen thousand people are looking at you. Steve points to the screen and says, ‘This is Ciara,’ and he sings, On a Wednesday morning in July we dried our tears and said goodbye, another angel gone before her time. Your song. I can’t take my eyes off you, and for a second our eyes meet. The crowd cheers when Kodaline finish. We dry our tears again.

I am in the car. ‘Sweet Dreams’ by Heart is on the radio. I am pulled back to 1986, London, plunged into a sense of loss. The song carries memories of a time when I was full of dreams and hope, when my life stretched out ahead of me. But I am in the now, and I push away the then, because it brings another loss with it. The future I once imagined is gone. You’re gone.

I am in a coffee shop. My friends are talking, laughing, discussing someone else’s pain. I am an outsider. Their grief has moved on. Someone else needs their attention now. I didn’t realise how much comfort I took from their grief for me, and when it shifted to someone else’s pain, I found that hard. That’s natural, something I have to accept. Everyone moves on, but a part of me is suspended with you. Now, when I grieve with other people, I want to tell them that in time their grief will soften, that they will breathe again.

You are the first thing I think of as I drift to sleep, and my first thought when I wake. The nightmares are gone, and so are the flashbacks. But you still visit my dreams — fleeting images passing through the night.

I am at home. The grief doesn’t hurt as much anymore. It’s true, time is a healer. But your laughter still echoes in our house. Grief plays hide and seek with me, jumping out of the shadows without warning, and I crumble at your loss for no clear reason. It happens less often now, and somehow that makes me sad. I don’t ache with grief as much. I feel I am losing you; the pain of grief is my connection to you.

Outside, I often stand still and close my eyes in the breeze. I feel your arms wrap around me, your voice whisper my name. When I walk in the sunshine, it’s your shadow that walks beside me. Grief is lonely, but I try to carry it with a smile.

This is our tenth Christmas without you, our only daughter. Another Christmas your brothers spend without their only sister. Our hearts may still be heavy, our bones aching with grief, but it is not as raw.

Six thousand five hundred and twenty-eight days you were with us. You have been gone three thousand four hundred and fifty-one days. But you will always be with us, and our sons will always have a sister with them. You will always be.

I am not sad because of the grandchildren I will never have, or because I will never see you in a white dress.

I am sad that you never got to be a lifeguard on Bondi Beach, never got to travel, never got to wear your wedding dress, never got to live your life — and that I never got you the pesto.

Happy Christmas, Ciara.