Memories seem to be coming at me.
Yesterday, Daddy and I went to Westlake's ballroom concert. It caught me by surprise because we don't have kids there, at least as students. But Jonny and Deborah are coaching the team so we went to support them.
And they actually did a number! It was the second show of the night and doing two shows in one night was more than the special needs dance class was able to handle, so the coaches threw together a couple numbers to fill in the gaps in the second show. Deborah and Jonny looked amazing, and it was so much fun to watch them again.
And then in the senior number, it was almost like watching Deborah, and then David, and Jonny, and Matthew, and finally Joseph dance their final shows. As Jonny announced it and gave tribute to each senior, I heard his voice catch. Coaching is such a labor of love for both him and Deborah. Watching the kids perform, all of them, filled my own soul.
And I thought about you dancing, how you would dance in your wheelchair when we would go to shows. And you would dance each year at your own dance festival. During the pandemic, they held it online and we sent in video to participate. Now you dance without limits.
I stopped by the cemetery after and it was dark, 'cause you know that happens when it's 9:30 at night. With the seasons changing, it's now light when I get there after work. But last night, last night it was dark. And your little lights were on, and I could see your place, shining in the darkness, giving my own heart a little lift. I mean, I cried, but I also smiled.
I've been thinking about a couple phone calls I made 14 years ago. One was to a neighbor, and another to a friend I hadn't seen since we were in college. Both had buried babies, boys in fact. I didn't know how to move forward. I was carrying you, and you were so active pretty much all the time. But doctors were telling me that you wouldn't, probably couldn't, live, and I just couldn't fathom how to go on.
I really don't remember much of what either said, but I knew they had somehow survived it, and if they could, so could I. And for almost 14 years, I clung to that.
Now, I live it. And somehow the world goes on. I'm still not quite sure how, and I couldn't tell someone how to survive, but the fact is, it does, and I am surviving, at least I think I am.
I still miss you dreadfully. Two months from today is your 14th birthday and I don't think there's a day that goes without at least a few tears. But Aaron, you taught me so much, you helped me, you are my own personal angel. What a blessing to have been allowed to know you and love you, and to look forward to when we are together again.
Love you so much, kiddo.
Miss you too.
Memory is time folding back on itself.
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