And his twenty-sixth.
He was a writer, an artist, a musician, a philosopher and a dreamer of big things. There are times when I pick up the phone just to imagine hearing his deep voice saying, "Hey, Mom!". I can still hear the way it sounded in my head. I hope I never forget.
Sometimes I open the spare closet and unwrap the few pieces of clothing that I kept. I try to capture his essence, but it no longer clings to the fibers of his favorite shirts. At first, they still smelled like him and I would wrap one of them around me, hoping to feel his arms giving me a fierce hug. He was so thin, but so strong. I would tease him and say, "Are you trying to break me in two?". It was nothing compared to a broken heart.
How does one let go of a child forever?
My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends—
It gives a lovely light
~Edna St. Vincent Millay~
The grief we carry....is exactly the weight of a sleeping child.
~Anne Michaels~
Dear friends, as difficult as it has been to write this post, it has been even harder to pretend that our son never existed. I solicit only your understanding, so please, no comments.
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