Creating Some of the Most Cherished Moments

I lost my 15-year-old daughter Rebecca - Becs as I called her - to cancer three years ago. In the months before she died, Becs, confined to her hospital room because of her illness and the raging Covid-19 pandemic, had been playing Sky Children of the Light on her iPhone. She wanted me to join in with her, so I upgraded my ancient iPhone to a newer model, and it was one of the best decisions I’ve ever taken.

Within the game, she was free as a bird and not stuck in a bed from which she could barely move. I loved the game and loved playing it with her. As our avatars traveled together, soaring through the clouds and landscapes on a variety of quests, in different realms – which I eventually found out symbolized the different stages of life, from early childhood to death and beyond – she was my guide, my mentor, my teacher. She (her avatar, rather) would hold my hand and lead me everywhere, and that's the way I wanted it. Neither of us would play the game without the other. We spent hours of high-quality time together, something which was priceless and highly cherished. I captured video grabs of as much of our adventures – eventually editing them all into a single video that is so long, it’s practically impossible to sit down and watch.

Throughout her life, I tried to guide and teach her, and now she was doing the same to me. I can't tell if she was seeing this game as a sort of allegory of her own life – even if just on a subconscious level. The only part of the game she didn't show me was the Eye of Eden realm - in which your character has to die in order to move forward; she said I wasn't ready for it. Did she know she was going to die soon herself? She certainly never talked about it, or asked about it. Her mother and I had earlier decided we wouldn't tell her unless she specifically asked. How are you supposed to break that news to your child? To me, the game developed into a metaphor of what would happen once I eventually pass myself – she'll be there waiting for me, to take and hold my hand, act as my guide and guardian, take me where I have to go.

I’m a journalist, and the story of her battle against cancer was published worldwide a few months after she passed away. In it, I talked in some detail about how we interacted in the game and mentioned Becs’ not wanting to show me the Eye of Eden. A wonderfully kind reader from the far side of the planet reached out to me, telling me that she felt it was important that I do eventually go into the Eye of Eden, see the ending, and offered to take me there. Around six months later, I felt emotionally ready for it - I contacted her, we met up in the game, and she guided me through the gate and beyond …. What followed were some of the hardest hours imaginable, but also the most rewarding and meaningful since Becs’ passing. For the first time, I felt somewhat at peace.

Three years on, once in a while I log into the game, and from Home, summon Becs’ avatar so I can see her for a while, gift her a candle of light. I get a lot of comfort from doing that. I don’t play the game - just potter around at Home a bit, refusing to step through any of the gateways, feeling unable to do so without her. Part of me lives in fear that because Becs’ account has been dormant since she died, it will eventually be deactivated, and I’ll no longer be able to ‘meet’ her at Home. I pray that will never happen, certainly not before I pass through my own Eye of Eden and see her again for real. I sat down in front of the hair salon’s fireplace, I wondered when would I see your star light up as it did many times before. Maybe one day, when we find ourselves once again at the right place and time.