The more years that pass, the more dates appear to remind me of grief. Remembering anniversaries of those who have passed, last days on earth, anniversaries spent alone, and birthdays. The worst is the birthday of a child whose death should never have predated mine. Especially without closure. A life taken by his own hand with no one beside him to tell him he was worthy, loved, needed.
Guilt rises in my soul every time a memory appears. Guilt of a mother who doesn’t understand, a mother who regrets decisions, misses her little boy. Gone but never forgotten, never loved less.
How do I find something positive in a day filled with such pain? I try to look at memories of the baby placed in my arms for the first time, the little boy learning to walk, the jokester, the man of deep thinking, the smile, the hugs, and then the inevitable happens. The stranger’s voice, a coroner, with the dreadful news.
Lifting my cup of tea with tears streaming down my cheeks. If only I could hug you and say happy birthday my beloved son.