Thanks for keeping me company.
I have never felt your presence before. Others tell me they have. I have hoped that you've been close by, but that's all it has been: a hope.
Tonight, coming home from dropping things off at Mary's, I could feel you. I could almost see you, sitting next to me in the passenger seat.
You were bigger, the size of a typical 14 year old, but it was you. I felt like I could almost reach out and hold your hand.
And that's all I wanted to do. I did reach out, and could almost feel your hand in mine, holding me, loving me.
Now I'm sitting on the patio, crickets are chirping, the hummingbird zips over to the feeder and back to the copse of scrub oak just behind the fence, and then back again for more nectar. A dragonfly swoops and glides, and the sun is low enough to cast shade over most of the yard, bringing cooler temperatures, just right for being outside.
I miss you, Aaron, but my soul knows you're at peace. No more tubes, no more wires (although you always did think those were toys). No more sedation, fevers, cranky brain spells.
I remember your last smile, so full of mischief and love as you looked around the very full PICU room ten days before you left us.
It's been almost seven months now; 30 weeks this weekend, over half the year since you left. I'm learning to move with the grief. I don't think you ever really move "through" it; that would imply an end. But as I sit here, I feel a measure of peace, of comfort. It's quiet, and your hummingbird just flew close, as if to say "hi."
Hi, my little boy, maybe my-not-quite-as-little boy. You're amazing. So glad I am your mom.
Love,
Mama
if not always in the way we expect.”
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