Cause every little thing gonna be alright

I was in the gym this morning doing Pilates when the voice of Bob Marley singing Three Little Birds filled the room.

So there I was doing side bends (which I hate and which I’m really bad at) in Pilates when I was instantly catapulted back to the day of my brother’s funeral. As I was wincing my way to a count of ten, I was also carrying my five-year-old niece and grabbing hold of a branch of the willow tree that shaded the spot where my brother was going to be buried.

The words ‘Don’t worry ’bout a thing / ‘Cause every little thing’s gonna be okay’ filled the gym and my head and there I was in church listening to the song as Matt’s coffin was carried out. In the real world I still had 30 minutes to go of my Pilates class but in the parallel universe of the funeral, I could hear the absolute stillness of collective shock reverberate around me. I could feel the weak April sun warming my face and my niece’s fingernails pressing into the back of my neck. I could smell the dirty earthiness of the freshly-dug grave where Matt would be laid to rest. I used to love woody nature-inspired perfumes. Not anymore.

Of all the days that I had to be reminded of Matt’s funeral, it would have to be today. Because today is his would-have-been birthday. Had he not killed himself, he would have turned 46. I try to imagine him that old. His hairline was already receding, in part to the dodgy dreads he had as a teenager and only confirms that blonde dreadlocks are not a good look on anyone. Would he have been completely bald by now? Would he have shaved his head? Or would it have become some raggy, scraggy wild grey? Would he have still been cooking up his famous steak and ale pie for everyone in the village or would he have moved on to something else? Would he still be doing magic tricks and rock climbing or would be have been a dimmer, duller, more unhappy version of who he was at 35? Would he have been an alcoholic, alive but slowly drinking himself to death?

These answerless questions no longer bother me, not least because my older brother has now become my younger brother by eight years. He’s now a mini-Matt, a little statue frozen in time that is wedged tightly in my heart.

 As for Three Little Birds, I used to think it was an odd choice to play at Matt’s funeral, because I just couldn’t see how anything was going to be alright ever again. But at lunchtime, I uncorked a bottle of red wine and celebrated my brother’s life with a friend, and I realised that, actually, it was the perfect choice all along.