I Didn’t Expect the Memory to Hurt This Much

#missysmadchallenge

I didn’t expect the memory to hurt this much.

Two days ago was Liam Payne’s second heavenly birthday.

I spent part of the day following live streams from Wolverhampton, where people gathered at the bandstand in West Park to remember him. Hundreds of tributes had been sent from near and far, surrounding the bandstand with photographs, messages and love.

It was emotional, but it was beautiful.

Wolverhampton is where Liam’s story began.

His hometown.
His childhood.
His roots.

Later, my attention travelled thousands of miles away to Argentina, where fans gathered outside the Casa Sur hotel.

And that one hit differently.

Because Wolverhampton reminded me where his story began.

Argentina reminded me where it ended.

Seeing that bloody hotel again stung.

I cannot look at that building without remembering the images and accounts from Liam’s final hours — particularly the sight of him being carried through that lobby.

It still makes me angry.

It still hurts.

And yet, outside that same hotel, Argentine fans stood together for Liam.

They brought flowers.
Candles.
Photographs.
Letters.

They sang his songs.

They cried together.

They remembered him.

And I kept thinking about how strong they were to stand there, directly outside a place carrying so much pain.

In their own way, they changed that space for a little while.

They surrounded it with love.

Wolverhampton and Buenos Aires.

Thousands of miles apart.

Different countries.
Different languages.
Different places in Liam’s story.

But the same love.

There were moments throughout the day when I smiled. There were moments when memories made me laugh, because grief doesn’t erase the funny parts. Sometimes those are the memories we cling to hardest.

But now the birthday has passed.

The live streams have ended.

The candles will eventually burn out.
The flowers will fade.
People will return to their everyday lives.

And suddenly, everything feels quiet again.

Perhaps that’s the strange thing about grief.

You prepare yourself for the difficult dates. You know they are coming. You brace yourself for the photographs, the songs, the memories and the tears.

Then the date passes.

You think you made it through.

And grief quietly whispers,

I’m still here.

I didn’t expect the memory to hurt this much.

Maybe because after almost two years, some part of me still expects remembering to become easier.

It hasn’t.

But I don’t want the memories to disappear either.

Because remembering Liam isn’t only remembering that hotel or what happened in Argentina.

It isn’t only remembering how his story ended.

It is remembering how he lived.

His music.
His ridiculous sense of humour.
His kindness.
His smile.
His dreams.
The lives he touched.