Chels

Grief is always a difficult feeling to navigate.

Monday May 26th was Celebration Day, a relatively new occasion dedicated to remembering those we have lost. Karly described it as ‘like Mexico’s Day of the Dead, but greyer’, which is hard to argue with really. There were plenty of think pieces this year disparaging the day, which I think sums up just why a day like Celebration Day is so valuable.

A lot of people decided that a dedicated day to remember lost loved ones is pointless (though I’m sure they wouldn’t say the same about Remembrance Day, but that’s beyond the point of this blog). They think that it’s more personal to celebrate on significant days to the individual, but I would argue that they’re wrong.

Days like birthdays or anniversaries of deaths are inevitably bittersweet, tinged with sadness and anger and the feeling that it’s just not fair, our loved one should be here with us. And that’s okay. Grief is complex and ongoing and we should be allowed to drop the stiff upper lip and feel things. But Celebration Day is different – it’s a day to remember the joyful times. Of course, no one is saying you can’t feel the negative emotions, think of it as a free pass to remember the good times, guilt free. 

We can treat death and grief as quite taboo here in the UK, but in other cultures, that’s not really the case. I think Celebration Day could be a great way to start dismantling that taboo.

This year, the founders of Celebration Day suggested an initiative to share a poem in honour of a lost loved one. They even partnered with the Guardian to share actors reading their chosen poems, to encourage more of us to try it out. Of course, we’re biased in favour of anything involving poetry, but I think this is a great exercise. Poetry is a great way to engage with complex feelings when we don’t quite have the words ourselves.

I tried it out myself, and I found that just engaging with poetry helped me to navigate my own feelings of both joy and grief. I read a lot of poems that just didn’t feel quite right, and in doing so, I discovered more about my lost loved one and how I remember our friendship, almost eight years after he passed away.

Remembering Christian

When I was 17, I lost a good friend. Christian was in the year below me in school, but we had the same group of friends, and we spent a lot of lunchtimes together. In 2016, we went to our first ever pride together. The next summer, he was voted both prom king and prom queen – you’d be hard pressed to find someone who didn’t enjoy spending time with him.

My favourite memories with Christian, though, are the mundane ones. When we both attempted (semi-successfully) to sit out for an entire football game on sports day, or leaning against an old wall to chat for far too long as we passed each other on the way home from school. We didn’t see each other as often by then, because I went to a different school for sixth form, so that hour or so of gossiping a few times a week served as a replacement for all the lunch breaks spent crowded round small tables. Things were so different, but our small chats were a constant. Christian was fun and bright and his funeral reflected that, we wore bright clothes and pop songs replaced hymns, and he arrived in a rainbow wrapped car. 

To celebrate Christian, I want to share The Orange by Wendy Cope – a poem about the joy found in the little things. I think back to the times I spent with Christian, and the last line really sums up how I felt in those moments. I love you. I’m glad I exist. He loved life. He’d call me cringe for saying all of this if he were still here, I’m sure of it, but he’d mean it affectionately.

The Orange

At lunchtime I bought a huge orange—

The size of it made us all laugh.

I peeled it and shared it with Robert and Dave—

They got quarters and I had a half.

And that orange, it made me so happy,

As ordinary things often do

Just lately. The shopping. A walk in the park.

This is peace and contentment. It’s new.

The rest of the day was quite easy.

I did all the jobs on my list

And enjoyed them and had some time over.

I love you. I’m glad I exist.

— Wendy Cope