Dear Fred,
21. 30. 42. 55. 60. All these birthdays and more have gone by, and each time I think it will be okay. But it's not. It hasn't gotten any easier as time passes Fred. And now I'm turning fucking 70 and it's still not easier. Mum and Dad have passed away, so at least I don't have to face the pity, the remorse, the wistfulness in their gazes but just… it hasn't gotten easier. It just hasn't.
I'm sure you know everything that's happened in my… in my time. I can't say my life, because it hasn't been, not really. I've partially been living for you. And that fucking sucks, doesn't it Fred? Shouldn't you have been able to live your own life? But no, some fucking "all knowing" God decided that you weren't good enough for that. And I was? The very idea is laughable.
You must know then, that Fred (my son Fred. I can't call him my Fred, because you were and always will be MY Fred. He's mine too but it… no, it's not the same) had twins. Twin boys. That was the most painful thing I've experienced since you left. I thought I was in the clear, after Rox and Fred and that was it. No twins. No reminder, even though I had Fred and God, he looks SO like you. But I wasn't ready for twins. I couldn't even be happy for their birth, because I was bawling my eyes out and the thing I wanted most was for you, just YOU, to be there with me. But no, no, instead I spent the birthday of my first grandchildren sobbing in some hospital bathroom because you weren't there. You weren't.
That's the thing that kills me most. I'm turning 70 and you're still not here. And I look at the twins, now 11 years old, and I see us. And I wish it was us. I wish I could go back in time to see you then, and tell you repeatedly how much I miss you.
Their names are Fabian and Gideon, if you're wondering. After Mum's brothers. Imagine that. The tradition continues.
I guess this is happy birthday Freddie.
Love, George