Your wheelchairs are gone. The gait trainer is gone. More and more "things" are going away.
Today as I dropped things off at your school, I caught myself, almost on the verge of breaking down but I was also headed to work, so not good timing.
And then the thought:
You're not losing him, you're letting him go.
Letting you go.
It still hurts, I won't lie. Frankly, I can't lie. This pain won't be denied. It hurts, it tears at me.
But you were so ready. You stayed as long as possible. I can't hold you back. You left. Your mission here finished, the one on the other side still ahead.
I need to not be holding you back. I still miss you. I always will. And it rips at my soul.
But you, my beautiful boy, you are amazing, and I want to honor your life, your memory. I want to give to others and help others. That's what you were all about.
You helped so many, many people. Your legacy lives on and will help countless others. You helped neighbors, church members, friends near and far. You healed our family, and you healed me.
I can see you in this video, racing towards the ones who have already gone ahead: your grandpa, great grandparents, all your friends who've watched out for you from the other side.
Grief is weird. I fully expect that I'll be swamped by a hurricane again, probably over and over. But for the moment, I'm at peace.
I know you are, too.