Bursting Bubbles

As we had done on this date for the past seven years, we stood around her grave, telling stories about her life. We always spoke about how she acquired her name. We remembered how when she was tiny she loved chasing bubbles around the garden, trying to catch them and crying when they burst. Even when she was older she adored watching the bubbles rise and fall in our retro lava lamp. But it was also her bubbly personality, always happy when dad came home, dancing around his feet until he picked her up. With mum she was more of a cuddler and even into her teens she would tuck herself under mum’s arm on the sofa to watch TV. The first time I saw her with her boyfriend it was rather shocking, she looked so young, but mum and dad both agreed to her spending time with him alone. He made her happy and she clearly missed him was he wasn’t around.

When she became ill we were all devastated, especially Benny, her boyfriend. Every visit to the clinic was begun with hope but ended in despair. There was nothing they could do. She was still our bubbly Bubbles though much quieter, wanting only to lie in her bed with one or the other of us with her, talking to her and stroking her soft hair, now falling out on her pillow. Benny spent every moment he could with her and she would rest her head on him, sighing.

The day we lost Bubbles we were all there, holding her and kissing her until her last breath. Afterwards Benny lay on the floor and howled. I’ve never heard such a terrible sound.

Placing Bubbles’ favourite toy, a rubber moose, on her grave we went into the house, still missing her as much as we did every year.