Memories, Past and Present, Moments in Time.

Dear Aaron,

I keep seeing snapshots, memories, in my mind and heart. 

Kneeling by your grave on Memorial Day, watching the butterflies flutter in the wind and trying to explain through tears to kind people admiring them. 

Finding two more pinwheels and a flag that someone placed for you. 

Hearing a bird tweet Tuesday morning as I drove away from your site to go to work.

Hanging the butterfly feeder outside the office window hoping for visitors.

Watching two hummingbirds swoop and fly around each other, pausing to take sips from their feeder.

The wind in my hair, the sun on my face.

Yanking out grass from the garden bed I should have weeded weeks and weeks ago. And planting pansies and lavender at the corner because they remind me of you. 

Seeing new grass poke up over your resting place.

Snuggling Sterling, hugging Elend, laughing at Barrett and Linnaea cuddling on the hammock.

Finding one of your potted flowers drooping almost in half, suffering from heat and lack of water.

And then the relief of seeing it tall and strong again a few hours later after a big drink.

Buying tamales with Michael at Costco and remembering all the many, many, many times I took them to Primary's before there was a Ronald McDonald room where I could find food. 

Eating those same tamales with Dad and Andrew and Matthew and Kensey ('cause Michael was with friends) and recalling eating them next to you in the PICU or on the floor.

Scattering rose petals from the roses on your grave, and watching the wind scatter them across the lawn.

Listening to Aunt Maurie's music.

Crying, weeping.

The ache of missing you still permeates my soul, but He makes it bearable, possible to keep moving on. 

I picture you in your bassinet, and then the cradle. Your wide open eyes in the wee hours of the morning. Your cheeky grin as you "helped" with your g-tube cares. Your laughter as your brothers spun you in the wheelchair. Your giggles as someone, anyone, would start in with tickle hands, before they even touched you. The way you snuggled into Daddy's shoulder, or listened intently as he read Magic Treehouse, A to Z Mysteries, and Harry Potter to you. Getting you ready for bed, or for school in the morning. 

I remember our many, many ambulance rides. The hundreds of times I held your hand and stroked your head and whispered to you as nurses struggled to find a good vein. The times I crawled in bed with you, both here at home and sometimes in the hospital and we snuggled. I remember helping transfer you, bagging you because I was more comfortable doing it than the floor nurses, and I needed to be doing something.  Holding you for the very first time when you were four days old. And the last time 13 years, six months and six days later.  Dressing you, kissing you, closing the casket, seeing the gentle mound over the resting place Daddy and I chose...

Missing you through it all. 

Aching.

Yet so grateful for you.

Seeing the mountains with snow on top, the green grass and trees.

Knowing that God knows all of it. 

A week ago I was driving to work and the road rose up ahead of me. There were trees on each side framing my view, and in front, where the road crested, were the mountains at the south end of the valley. The sun was rising and the snow on the east facing slopes was brilliant while the western sides were still starkly shadowed. The sky was a soft blue with faint wisps of white clouds. 

And I felt His whisper, "I know, I feel it, I love Aaron and I love you. You can do this. I am with you."

Two weeks from today is your birthday... 

Remembering the years all this time

Moving through the pages of life

You have been a joy to me

Blooming in the sun and the rain

Holding you through laughter and pain

As you dance I delight

I have loved you all this time

Sandi Patty