Five Winters

by Kitty Johnson

There had been a lot of guilty feelings when I was a kid, especially at Christmas. Every now and then, in the midst of all the excitement, it would come crashing over me. I’d be tearing the wrapping paper off my presents alongside Rosie, and suddenly I’d remember. My mum and dad were dead. I shouldn’t be enjoying myself. Shouldn’t be happy like this. It was wrong.

They both died instantly, and so did my life as I knew it.

It wasn’t right. Shouldn’t even have been possible. You ought to have known if someone you loved so much was in such grave danger. Got a sign or something. Felt the pain like a javelin in your own chest.

“Guilt is all wrapped up in grief, and you’re grieving, mate.”

But that was precisely why I needed to be with them. So I wouldn’t have to pretend to be okay. Wouldn’t have to fix a smile on my face. I wanted—and needed—to be with my fellow sufferers. People who understood what I was going through because they were going through it themselves.

“But wanting something doesn’t make it any less scary, that’s all.”

You were grieving, that’s all. You just needed a haven.

I looked at him. He had a nice face. The face of someone who’s lived a lot of life and emerged all the better from it.

You couldn’t will yourself to love people, just as—apparently—you couldn’t will yourself to stop loving them.

“Nobody can make you do anything,” said Smithy. “Not unless you let them.”

Don’t let life happen to you. Have a long, hard think about what you want and a long, hard look at what you’ve got, and see what syncs. Okay?”