Thursday, September 12, 2013


I'm struggling this week.  Missing my boy.  Thinking about what 6 should be like.  Remembering how awful things were three years ago.  Wishing so hard it were all a different story I could be sharing today. 

My heart is imploding as I write this; grasping to find the words that I cannot articulate.  To describe what it is like three years later.  The loss is just as great; it does not diminish over time.  Instead, it almost feels like it gets bigger as more time goes by.  More time that could have and should have been.  More time that was stolen away from us.  The nagging feeling that we've been cheated out of one of the best things we ever had never goes away.  It is always right there, under the veil of composure we try to hard to maintain. 

But this week is tough one.  It is harder to focus, to talk, to think, to breathe.  The ache tugs a little more.  The hole gapes wider.  The tears flow faster.  And there is no release.  He is gone in the morning when I wake up.  And gone when I accidentally pull too many bowls down for the cereal at breakfast.  And he is gone when I make the beds and fold the socks and pick up the toys littering the floors.  He is gone when we drop off and pick up from school.  He is gone when we walk to the park.  He is gone when we eat dinner and when we have baths and read stories.  He is gone when the prayers are said.  And his bed stays empty  when the others are tucked in and kissed because he is gone.  And he is gone when the sun goes down and the world gets quiet.  He is gone when the dishes are washed and the shirts are ironed.  He is gone when I lie in bed at night.  And he is still gone when I wake in the middle of the night and can't sleep.  He is always gone. 

And while I sit here in a puddle, gasping for breathe, struggling to stay present, the world just keeps spinning.  And people all around me keep smiling.  And breakfasts till need to be made and dishes still need to be done.  And laundry mountains grow and drywall sits unfinished and paperwork piles up because I cannot move.  And I try to be gentle and allow the grief to happen.  Because it's okay to have hard weeks.  But the world still turns.  And I pray for grace to flow out and cover my family.  Because I am not the only one grieving.  This is hard week for all of us. 

1 comment:

  1. This makes me weep. To contradict you, you have articulate your loss using all the beauty of language you know. Remember that what remains is not only the grief but the beauty. He was. Really that is all any of us can be. Bev