I will be okay

“Do you want to come ice skating?” Sean says to me, in the living room, from the kitchen. He glides across the linoleum floor in fluffy socks, exaggerating his arm movements, making his way to me on the couch.

“Okay,” I say.

Okay. I will be okay. It’s moments like these in which I know I will be okay.

Two weeks and two days ago I lost the one person who could read me and my mind within seconds of seeing or hearing from me, who could communicate with me in literal mumbles and beep sounds, who always knew how to make me feel better instantly.

And as Sean skates back into the kitchen after pretending to be hurt when I accidentally struck him when he leaned in to kiss my cheek, complete with fake tears of saliva running down his face, I know I will be okay.

He, nor will anyone, ever replace Mum or the fierce bond we had. But he truly “gets” me, in a similar way. He knows when I need him and his comic relief even when I don’t. And we communicate in our own weird way of just “knowing” without having to say anything. And he knows that I will always want to join a fluffy sock ice skating party in our kitchen.

I will be okay.