He smelled like apples.

Although maybe that's my childish mind still at work. It's crazy how the things that affect us as children remain a part of our lives forever. He used to make me apple tarts and, therefore, he smells like apples in my mind.

When he died, I wanted to feel the pain. He was the first close relative of mine to ever pass away and I wanted to cry until I couldn't anymore but, really, we hadn't been that close. I wanted to regret not talking to him more, but that also failed me. I knew that I wouldn't change much if I could go back and live those days over again. We would sit in a comfortable silence and that was okay with the both of us.

I knew he loved me and he knew I loved him.

We only ever spoke at family gatherings or when we ended up at my grandparents – his parents – house at the same time, but that was how our family always have and probably always will live. We occassionally crossed each other's paths and rarely gave the other a thought, but we were both comfortable in that.

I can see now that our relationship relied on comfort.

He brought handmade apple tart to one of my parties and, once I told him how much I loved it (with a quiet confession that it was even better than my grandad's), he started to bring it to other parties held in our house. There would be two tarts; one to put out for everyone and one for me to keep in the fridge for myself. Although, everyone knew how much I loved it so they would steer clear of the former.

I don't remember being told that he was sick, but I also can't remember a time when he wasn't. Grey and slight smiles were his aesthetic and I began to notice him more. It's funny how you look at people once you know they're going to die. Although everyone assured me it would never end up like that, the fear was evident in their eyes and it was easy to succumb to what they believed.

To see him dying was even harder. We were all called in before he passed; to see him one last time, and I think it was the most difficult thing I had ever experienced. I couldn't even begin to explain what it felt like to be in a room full of family members who had previously only joined for a celebration and were now crying and holding each other. He was weak. I couldn't look.

I hold many regrets from my past, but the strongest is that I didn't go to his funeral. I wasn't able to make myself and I have regretted it ever since. It was a hard time for everyone, but it seemed to only bring us closer.

When I think of him now I see his quiet smile; the one of a gentle person who would make me my own apple tart and who kept to himself at parties. When I think of him, I can smell apples and feel his hugs and that is enough.