Cecelia Ahern - P.S. I Love You

Friends and family came and went, sometimes helping her with her tears, other times making her laugh. But even in her laughter there was something missing. She never seemed to be truly happy; she just seemed to be passing time while she waited for something else. She was tired of just existing; she wanted to live. But what was the point in living when there was no life in it?

These questions went through her mind over and over until she reached the point of not wanting to wake up from her dreams–they were what felt real.

Deep down, she knew it was normal to feel like this, she didn't particularly think she was losing her mind. She knew that people said that one day she would be happy again and that this feeling would just be a distant memory. It was getting to that day that was the hard part.

She read and reread Gerry's original letter over and over, analyzing each word and each sentence, and each day she came up with a new meaning. But she could sit there till the cows came home trying to read between the lines and guess the hidden message. The fact was that she would never really know exactly what he meant because she would never speak to him ever again . It was this thought that she had the most difficulty trying to come to terms with, and it was killing her.

Now May had gone and June had arrived, bringing bright long evenings and the beautiful mornings that came with them. And with these bright sunny days June brought clarity. There was no hiding indoors as soon as it got dark, and there were no lie-ins until the afternoon. It seemed as though the whole of Ireland had come out of hibernation, taken a big stretch and a yawn and suddenly started living again. It was time to open all the windows and air the house, to free it of the ghosts of the winter and dark days, it was time to get up early with the songbirds and go for a walk and look people in the eye and smile and say hello instead of hiding under layers of clothes with eyes to the ground while running from destination to destination and ignoring the world. It was time to stop hiding in the dark and to hold your head up high and come face-to-face with the truth.

June also brought another letter from Gerry.

Holly had sat out in the sun, reveling in the new brightness of life, and nervously yet excitedly read the fourth letter. She loved the feel of the card and the bumps of Gerry's handwriting under her finger as it ran over the dried ink. Inside, his neat handwriting had listed the items that belonged to him that remained in the house, and beside each of his possessions he explained what he wanted Holly to do with them and where he wished for them to be sent. At the bottom it read:

PS, I love you, Holly, and I know you love me. You don't need my belongings to remember me by, you don't need to keep them as proof that I existed or still exist in your mind. You don't need to wear my sweater to feel me around you; I'm already there . . . always wrapping my arms around you.

That had been difficult for Holly to come to terms with. She almost wished he would ask her to do karaoke again. She would have jumped from an airplane for him; run a thousand miles, anything except empty out his wardrobes and rid herself of his presence in the house. But he was right and she knew it. She couldn't hang on to his belongings forever. She couldn't pretend to herself that he was coming back to collect them. The physical Gerry was gone; he didn't need his clothes.

It was an emotionally draining experience. It took her days to complete. She relived a million memories with every garment and piece of paper she bagged. She held each item near to her before saying good-bye. Every time an item left her fingers it was like saying good-bye to a part of Gerry all over again. It was difficult; so difficult and at times too difficult.

She informed her family and friends of what she was about to do, and although they all offered their assistance and support time and again, Holly knew she had to do this alone. She needed to take her time. Say a proper good-bye because she wouldn't be getting anything back. Just like Gerry, his belongings couldn't return. Despite Holly's wishes of wanting to be alone, Jack had called around a few times to offer some brotherly support and Holly had appreciated it. Every item had a history and they would talk and laugh about the memories surrounding it. He was there for her when she cried and he was there when she finally clapped her hands together, ridding her skin of the dust that remained. It was a difficult job but one that needed to be done.

And one that was made easier by Gerry's help. Holly didn't need to worry about making all the big decisions, Gerry had already made them for her. Gerry was helping her, and for once, Holly felt like she was helping him too.

She laughed as she bagged the dusty cassettes of his favorite rock band from his school days. At least once a year Gerry came across the old shoe box during his efforts to control the mess that grew inside his closet. He would blast the heavy metal music from every speaker in the house to torment Holly with its screeching guitars and badly produced sound quality. She always told him she couldn't wait to see the end of those tapes. The relief didn't wash over her as she once hoped it would.

Her eyes rested upon a crumpled ball lying in the back corner of the wardrobe–Gerry's lucky football jersey. It was still covered in grass and mud stains, fresh from its last victorious day on the pitch. She held it close to her and inhaled deeply; the smell of beer and sweat was faint, but still there. She put it aside to be washed and passed on to John.

So many objects, so many memories. Each was being labeled and packed away in bags just as it was in her mind. To be stored in an area that would sometime be called upon to teach and help in future life. Objects that were once so full of life and importance but that now lay limp on the floor. Without him they were just things .

Gerry's wedding tuxedo, his suits, shirts and ties that he would moan about having to wear every morning before going to work. The fashions of the years gone by, eighties shiny suits and shell tracksuits bundled away. A snorkel from their first time scuba diving, a shell that he picked from the ocean floor ten years ago, his collection of beer mats from every pub in every country they had visited. Letters and birthday cards from friends and family sent to him over the years.

Valentine's Day cards from Holly. Childhood teddies and dolls put aside to be sent back to his parents. Records of bills, his golf clubs for John, books for Sharon, memories, tears and laughter for Holly.

His entire life bundled into twenty refuse sacks.

His and her memories bundled away into Holly's mind.

Each item unearthed dust, tears, laughter and memories. She bagged the items, cleared the dust, wiped her eyes and filed away the memories.

Holly's mobile began to ring and she dropped the laundry basket onto the grass under the washing line and ran through the patio doors into the kitchen to answer the phone.

“Hello?”

“I'm gonna make you a star!” Declan's voice screeched hysterically on the other end and he broke into uncontrollable laughter.

Holly waited for him to calm down while she searched her brain and tried to figure out what he could be talking about. “Declan, are you drunk?”

“Maybe jus a li'l bit, but that's completely irrevelant,” he hiccuped.

“Declan, it's ten o'clock in the morning!” Holly laughed. “Have you been to bed yet?”

“Nope,” he hiccuped again, “I'm on the train home now and will be in bed in 'proximately three hours.”

“Three hours! Where are you?” Holly laughed again. She was enjoying this, as it reminded her of when she used to call Jack at all hours of the morning from all sorts of locations after misbehaving on a night out.