Almost Done...

Dear Aaron,

I sit on the back patio with the breeze blowing and gray clouds like the underside of quilt batting. The monsoon rains have come, but this far away from the ocean means moisture is still hit or miss. When it hits, it does it hard, which is both good and bad. The drought is awful, and so are the fires. But the water hitting already burned ground creates flooding and more destruction too. Definitely a double edged sword. 

Summer is winding down. School starts next week. Linnaea will be in 1st grade; you would be a junior. If you were like your siblings, you would be caught up in extracurriculars, maybe soccer or football, or band or choir or ballroom. You'd be taking a bunch of really hard classes and learning to drive. If you were still here, we might have moved you over to the high school by now. In 2009 as we put together your IEP, your teacher and principal told me you really had outgrown your school. As I talked to some special ed teachers at the high school, they told me their own students were doing math similar to what you were doing in 4th grade. 

But you're not here; you're there. I was remembering again what Aunt Liz said I told her when you were born: "He's here." And when you left: "He's gone." Here and gone. And I miss you.

Your Michael comes home next week from his mission. Thirteen and a half years of missionaries, and it comes to a close.  You were there, physically, for each one of the others. And while there were smiles and tears through smiles for others, each one broke down in sobs as they hugged you. But you won't be there this time, at least not physically. Will you put your arms around him? Hold him? Let him know you are still there? 

The two of you were so close. He doesn't even remember what life was like before you were born. He wasn't quite four yet. He knew his numbers between 85 and 100 before he knew 1 through 20. He read the Book of Mormon to you, and played and goofed off with you. 

The days keep coming, the world continues on. And somehow, we move forward too, but not without the pain that comes from being stretched in ways I never wanted. 137 weeks, almost 1000 days. 

Today I pulled over for an ambulance and for the first time in a long time, fought back tears as it rushed by. I hope they get the help they need. I hope they are treated as well as you always were.

You were and are a blessing to so many...

Love,
Mama

"Stumbling over all those little moments of grief is just a part of moving forward."

~Terri Guillemets 

Aaron, I Cut My Hair

Dear Aaron,

I cut my hair last week.

The only people who knew ahead of time were Daddy and a coworker. 

It's short, for me it's really short. I think the last time I had it this short was the summer I was 12 or 13. But I like it.

My coworker said it took ten years off me. I quipped back that it was good, 'cause life keeps just adding. 

But then later, I wished it really could take ten years off. 

Ten years ago you were here. You were happy, (relatively) healthy. We had a couple stays in the hospital, but not really big deals. We were in the midst of birthday parties, parades, soccer tournaments, one brother coming home and another leaving, plays and trips to the water park. All my kids together for the first time in three years. I was switching your feedings from commercial formula to a blended formula which worked so well for you for a long time! 

It was busy, crazy, loud, and good.

You were here.

Now it's not as busy, pretty quiet, and even though you're not here, still pretty good. But I miss you.

Hummingbirds are back in force and I sit on the patio as they swoop and chirp and scold each other, guarding their territory, not aware that the food won't run out. 

I wonder if I'm a bit like that, or if I was. Although your time did run out. I still don't understand. My brain still really doesn't comprehend how you're not here with me anymore, although in some ways, I guess I've kinda learned. 

I don't hear your machines anymore, and I no longer have a hospital bag packed. I will turn off my phone. I don't even cry when I hear sirens anymore (although that only happened after you died, not before). 

I still miss you even if I don't cry every day.

I still think of you every day even if I don't write nearly as often.

It feels deeper, quieter, but more a part of the visceral portion of me. Not as visible, not something people look at me and see anymore. I've learned to say "nine" when people ask how many children I have. Usually they stop there. But recently, some have asked what the age range is, and that stops me a bit. Are you 13? Or 16? I don't have children at home, but you're too young to have left.

And yet you did.

Sending so much love heavenward.

Love,
Mama

“It’s an honor to be in grief. It’s an honor to feel that much, to have loved that much.” 

- Elizabeth Gilbert