I’m sorry that I can’t remember your voice. [Still can’t, these notes are written in 2017, a year after the original letter]
I’m sorry that I can’t remember your smell,
or your laugh, or how you looked.
I’m sorry I can’t remember your face,
Or what clothes you used to wear.
I’m sorry that I was too young to ask about you, to get to know who you were.
I’m sorry that all I have of you if half-remembered fragments told to me by my family, and that they hardly speak of you – I’m sorry for not asking more.
I’m sorry that all I know of our time together is a tinned can label from a can of beans, stuck in a learning scrapbook that we made together.
I’m sorry that you got killed by
your husband. [A random guy and that it could totally have been prevented if only the warrants were valid]
I’m sorry that a bench is all we have in monument to you, and I’m sorry that I don’t know where you are buried. [Found it]
I think it was back home, but I’m sorry, I don’t know where your home was, where you came from, what you liked to eat (semolina?), what you liked to listen to (other than Madness), who your family were and if they’re still alive. [The answer here surprised me more than I can say]
I’m sorry that I’ve never asked to meet them, or to speak to people about you.
I’m sorry that I feel so much for you, yet can’t remember a damn thing.
I’m sorry that Robbie Williams always makes me think of you and makes me cry for you.
I’m sorry that my mum said you wouldn’t want me to be sad so every now and again I let emotion overflood me as if I feel something massive for you but I can’t tell if I do or not because I repress thoughts of you most of the time.
I’m sorry that whenever she speaks of her beloved cousin who died, or her sister who died, all I think of is you.
I’m sorry that I don’t know why I do, why you represent a massive hole in my life. [Still don’t know]
I’m sorry that I don’t know why I’m crying now.
I understand now, why I keep seeing my friend that told me in my dreams, I keep needing to apologise to her in them, for calling her ugly, or not saying anything – because I can’t remember if I did or not.
She was the one who told me someone had died- and didn’t even think of you. I was so scared that it was my gran or my mum, even though it would have been impossible for it to have been them. Then I thought it was Jean-bean, the cook. I never even thought of you.
I’m sorry J– if I could have prevented something from happening to you from speaking, and I hope that nothing happened and that you’re ok. [Apparently I did, we’re cool and I’ve since stopped dreaming of you, friend]
I’m sorry Tracey, for feeling this way, for not even knowing how to spell your name. And I’m so sorry if the only reason I’m doing this is because mum is, I’m ever the imitator, you know. [Still am]
I miss, and I have no idea why. Maybe two year old me would know, but I can’t remember that far back. I’m sorry.
I will ask her, regardless of why my brain is doing this, but I’ll do it at Easter, face to face. So you seem more real. [I did it]
I think it was Wales, that you came from. And I think it makes sense. And I think it’s strange that I’ve never considered that you probably had a welsh accent in that case. How strange. (I vaguely remember your hair and face, but I think alot of its mixed up with other people. I also have fake memories of being in a pram with you pushing, which can’t be true caz my brother’s in the memory and he wasn’t there then. Unless he was, later. I don’t remember.) [No idea, but it sure shit weren’t Wales, oops]
[Herzog Samuel Bellow Loved]