An ode to Harry Oram

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry you weren’t always understood.

I’m sorry when I kept you at a distance.

I’m sorry you didn’t always feel loved.

I’m sorry we didn’t laugh more.

I’m sorry I didn’t paint with you.

I’m sorry if I didn’t thank you more: you did so much for me.

I’m sorry when I made you self-conscious.

I’m sorry I was awkward when you tried stand-up.

I’m sorry systems and expectations conspired to fuck you. I’m sorry about this… again.

I’m sorry you won’t watch the boys grow older. I ache with sorry – a searing sorry.

I’m sorry I didn't see you needed more, better from me.

I’m not sorry how original you were.

I’m not sorry how much you loved Hannah.

I’m not sorry how much you loved, and were proud, of the boys.

I’m not sorry for all the times we shared – brilliant, beautiful times.

I’m not sorry you lived with a brave vulnerability.

I’m not sorry you entrusted me with your dreams and fears.

I’m not sorry about our many, many table tennis games.

I promise to look after Hannah, the boys and your memory.

Love, Joel.