Some years it really is easier and then, out of what feels like total left field, it’s a bad year again. I’ve written about this week before and how my mind is completely distracted, but I don’t think I’ve talked about the weight of it, the physical ache, the near-constant feel of tears behind my eyes. The want to just crawl right back into bed the moment I wake up in the morning while at the same time, terrified to be anything less than busy in case I slip and fall down the rabbit hole. I want to do nothing but think about him, to acknowledge the grief, to wrap it around myself and get lost in it, yet at the same time I want the week to be over, to shed my skin and start again. I want to focus all of my love on Lily and Jess and celebrate this incredible life we have together, yet I want to mourn what should have been and loose myself in the love between mother and son. I want everyone to leave me along so that I can hear only my own thoughts, but I want to be surrounded by love and comfort.
I want desperately to be hopeful, to see the light, to remember that it’s not always this hard, but I want people to remember his name. I want to take in the photos of his tiny fingers, his delicate lips but I don’t want it to come with the hurt of knowing that those are the only photos of him, that there are none to follow of him walking, talking, eating, running, growing, and living. I want to know that I will always be his mother that he will always be part of me, in my blood and on my skin, but I want him in my arms. I want nothing and everything.
