Memories spill, pinged from the gray mush
passing for my brain
from the strangest sources.
The line from a book, a song lyric.
Coming across How It’s Made
while scrolling through the TV channels will pull out
The clear image of carrying him to his bed,
the warmth of his baby breath on my neck.
Watching him re-create with blocks
geometric designs far beyond his three years.
The light in his eyes when he got his first bulls-eye. The
fear there concerning bats, and non-vocal deer. The way
his hugs felt, so all-encompassing. I can almost feel the press.
Or it might be the weight of this sorrow.
Or it might be both.
Filed under Family, poetry
Ten years ago today, Chris took the fall that would change him completely, and ultimately lead to his death. Despite all the physical and mental pain during those years, I got to spend a lot of time with my son. I cherish every conversation, even the ones I didn’t wholly understand because he talked serious science and theory I had no idea about. He knew that. But I listened. I tried. I learned. And that was what was important to him. He called me turtle. He loved me more than he loved anyone else in the world. I have that. Oh, wow. I have that.
Finding and holding on to the joy of all I do have is something I have to work hard at lately. More so than during those first days of this grief. I’m trying. I’m succeeding. And yet I find the tears welling up from so deep inside me it hurts coming out happening more and more often. I have to keep reminding myself of all I do have. I have to remember that there are so many people who’ve lost more in far more terrible ways, that this all could have gone even worse for us. I have to hope my son is off having many adventures, in a place I can’t reach him now, but will someday. And I have to know, that one way or another, he’s free of all those things that caused him so much pain here.
One foot in front of the other.
Day by day.
So if you have some joy to share, please do. I’ll take all I can get.