Remembering the Finn

Remembrance Day (Armistice Day in the UK) makes Aussies everywhere stop and pause. Not because we want to glorify war, but to mark the suffering of those who fought and survived - and to recall those who didn't come back. Both my grandfathers fought in World War II: on my mum's side, my grandfather was the only one of three brothers and an inlaw to come home. (No saving private Lamble, then.) Living in England has given me a whole new perspective on the impact of war when it's closer to home: every British family paid a price through bombings, rationing and loss of family and friends. (Makes you wonder - if they could mobilise the entire population through drastic measures then, why can we not do the same against global warming, which poses an even bigger threat: the Stern report says so.)

But I digress.

Three years ago, I forgot to stop for the customary two minutes' silence. A phonecall had stopped the clock just after 8.30 that morning: Mikko was dead. The loss of the man who'd described people he admired as having a 'heart size of a continent' left a similarly sized void in the lives of all who knew and loved him.

In the early days I think we friends found a lot of comfort in each other and in continuing to do 'Mikko-shaped' things, from marking Finnish Independence Day to nights at The Dan, and preserving the ban on lighting cigarettes from candles (it kills sailors, honest).

Coming to terms with what my mum calls 'the goneness' has often been helped by keeping the best of him alive in me. When I buy a good red, cook risotto, campaign at election time, pore over a history book, watch certain films, or talk politics into the wee hours, I can't help imagining him, in hat, shirtsleeves and vest, elegant hands always busy, his rich laugh bouncing off the walls, interspersed with giggles, hovering somewhere behind me, peering over my shoulder.

But time passes, and new traditions evolve: the new-format Sunday session 'at Dan' opened up a new musical experience and a new circle of friends; new housemates bred a burgeoning love of rugby (after all the years I gave him stick for watching Bledisloe - sheesh!). And eventually I looked forward to breaking away from Melbourne and setting up a whole new rhythm here in the UK. I needed to do my own thing and resolve some past before embarking on a very different future with the lovely Anthony.

This last 18 months has given me much to think about. My marriage to Anthony is a wondrous thing, but it opened some cans of worms I didnt realise were so undealt-with. Sometimes I've felt as though I'm living two lives: the every-day business of loving Ants, working, travelling, and learning more about music and history; and the world in my head where the Finn need not be quite so absent.

Sometimes those two worlds collide and that still leaves me feeling confused and adrift. The more time passes, the more that sense of 'missing him' becomes a frustration that there's so much he's missing out on. Finland won Eurovision - with a deathmetal song. The Aussies clean-sweep-ed the Ashes. Then there's the small stuff: I wish he could see all the things we've all become - the ways that we've taken the things we shared with him and made them uniquely ours, and the new things we've made for ourselves. It's not always enough that if he was here, I know he'd be proud.

People say that time heals and helps the pain to fade - that's not true. When it wells up, it's just as agonising as the hardest days when he was still here and hurting, or that first numb, aching night of the day he died. I think time just makes us better at dealing with that hurt when it comes. The hole isn't ever filled - we just get better at living with it.

But if we give in to our sadness, all we prove is that he was right to give it up - and for all the crazy mixedupness of this world, and no matter what peace it brought him personally, it'll never really be okay that he took himself out.

At day's end, we can only do so much looking backwards, cos that's not the way we're going. Mikko's life and death will always be one of the most important things to shape my life. Letting other big things in is both healing and scary. Learning to balance things in their place is taking longer than I thought, and it's still not linear. There are days of peace and strength - those five days in Vienna, five more in Helsinki with Jarkko, Chaals, Satu & Hanna, Antti & Anna, a quiet triumph after gigs and sessions and travels and big days at work. I'm learning it's possible to smile through my tears and teach old memories and new to live side by side in my head.

But rakas Mikko, you will never be forgotten, and as I wound a poppy onto my hat this week, I thought less of older veterans, and more of you.