The Angel in The Room

It is usually referred to as "The Elephant in The Room", that topic we don't mention in case we cause hurt or cause a fuss or a row. But I won't have you called an elephant, so an angel it will be, whether folk want to think of it literally or figuratively.

My brother had an important gig the other night. You would have loved your uncle, Sylvie-Rose, he is the sort of uncle who turns you upside down and swings you around and brings you foraging for blueberries up a mountain in Wexford. Your brothers love to see him and hero-worship him.

But aside from being the best sort of uncle he is a talented musician and I did want to be at this gig. In the ladies, I met a friend of your uncle, also a musician. Successful. I knew her, I had seen her on the TV. I like her songs.

She knew who I was. "You're J's sister, you have lots of blonde boys"  Yes, Sylvie-Rose, your brothers are all blond boys.  All, like you, had dark hair when born which slowly turned blonde, like I was as a child, like your Dad is now. But she didn't mention you. Does she know about you, I wonder, did she hear that J had a niece who died, seven short weeks after joining us here. And I feel awkward because I don't know if she knows. I want people to know about you too. Perhaps she knows and doesn't say, possibly she feels awkward too. People are conditioned not to mention our children who die. Perhaps, here, at this happy event, she might upset me and she wouldn't want that.

And I don't mention you either. Because I don't want to embarrass her, I don't want to be Miss Havisham, dredging up my shattered past. Your existence and my loss of you seem like a discordant non-sequitur in this social situation. I don't want to be the crazy lady in the bathroom.

She doesn't mention you. I don't mention you. You're the angel in the room and we both pretend you're not there.