Six years yesterday.
Lucy turned 17 on the 15th. Seventeen. I’ve missed her 12th, 13th, 14th, 15th, 16th and now 17th birthday.
Used to make her these elaborate treasure hunts around the house in Camberwell. She’d wake up Christmas morning or her birthday and there’d be the first clue taped to her bedroom door. Always ended with something daft like finding her present hidden in the washing machine or behind the hot water system.
Last birthday I knew about was her 11th. Made her a cake shaped like a guitar because she was learning. Took me three attempts and it still looked more like a tennis racquet but she loved it.
Wonder if she even remembers the treasure hunts. Or if her mum’s told her I never cared about her birthdays.
I send a card every year to her mum’s address. Don’t know if Lucy gets them. Probably not. But I keep sending them anyway because… what else can you do?
Seventeen. She’ll be finishing Year 12 next year. Probably thinking about uni. I don’t even know what subjects she’s taking.
The grief isn’t as sharp as it was but Christ, the birthdays still knock you sideways don’t they.