Eleven years this week. Since that day. That morning.

I’ve dreamed about Connor two, possibly three times during this time. Fleeting absorption, the tantalising, sadder than sad touching, holding, smelling, holding on to, almost knowing within that dream state it isn’t real. Or knowing so immediately after waking, a scrambling to hold onto disappearing feels, smells, warmth. 

How is it possible he’s dead?

Two, possibly three, clairvoyant type people have been in touch during this time to say Connor’s been knocking about their space with something to say. I’ve not replied. I don’t know what to say and it doesn’t feel comfortable. I kind of think the boy was savvier than a lot of us and would have worked out some way of getting in touch if he could. 

I don’t know how to make sense of his death and as more time passes, I realise words don’t exist to do so. This is probably ok. Well intentioned people talk about models or stages of grief, trying to coax the unsayable into coherence. This maybe important for some. A bit of a roadmap, guidance, perhaps hint of an ending at some point to the searing pain. 

I clamped Connor to my heart. He’s just there. I think I did it a year or so after he died, walking to walk one morning along St Giles in Oxford. Looking at the enormity of an endlessly blue sky along that wide stretch of road. Teasing through the agonies and incomprehensible sadnesses for a billionth time. Knowing his woodland grave lay a mile or so ahead on the edge of town. Bus 2, 2A, S4, X4…

Gotcha matey. As I should have.

I sit in work meetings where we discuss the lives of people with learning disabilities or family carers, with people with learning disabilities and family carers, aching for the days when work meetings happened in person and I had a regular ponder about what Connor was doing at school. Reading his school diary; a mechanism of communicating info and an unrecognised at the time log of his thinking. 

We have been looking at how Hindu’s celebrate for Diwali. Connor said he is a Pagan and Pagan’s worship Stonehenge, Vince Noir and public transport.

The countdown to July 4 seems different this year. Maybe we because we got over the 10 year mark. Instead of doubling down at home with family and friends, we smashed Kinder Scout with a picnic last year. 

Maybe it’s different because of the joy and distraction of Laughing Boy and everything that came with the production. Alfie Friedman (Connor) and Daniel Rainford (Tom), had a joke about what if Connor was boring. Apparently Daniel would say his lines with enthusiasm with Alfie’s lacklustre response;

‘You loved buses didn’t you, Connor?!’

[Silence and a shrug…] ‘They’re ok.’

I chuckled when I heard this. I mean what if Connor was boring…? ‘Mum, am I boring, mum?

That people are talking about Connor in this way all these years later is astonishing. The play did its job in very publicly sloughing off the destructive coating of the learning disability label, presenting Connor as pretty much who he was. A beautiful, funny and thoughtful young person with a strong sense of justice. Once again, thank you to Steve Unwin, the cast and creative teams, and both theatres. Memories of the whole experience are warm and dazzling.

So, I’ve been cooking a storm for a feast tomorrow as the kids/partners head this way. And here’s a photo of Connor and his cousins on holiday in France back in the day. The attire that year, disposable shower cap and turquoise swimming goggles.

Love him.