This morning I was running a couple errands early, although not as early as I did on Saturdays when you were still here. Then I had to be back home by 8 to sign out a nurse. Today I didn't leave until almost 8:30. Whatever...
Anyway, the sun was peeking over the mountain, just barely. As I drove, sometimes it hid, sometimes a tiny beam shown, sometimes the full glory appeared.
Sometimes it's dark, overwhelming, aching pain of your loss.
And sometimes it vacillates pretty quickly along the spectrum.
I don't cry every single day right now, but still on most of them. And there's days where everything moves pretty smoothly, okay, and then suddenly it hits all over again. A song, the stoplight by your school, something I see online, a memory.
A smile, a laugh, and then followed by a sob.
Or even the other way around.
Today is General Conference. Today we hear from the prophets. It will be a different experience. Daddy and I are both getting better but we're not 100%, so no one will be joining us. From weekends with a plethora of snacks, blankets and pillows on the floor and plenty of "shhh, I can't hear," or ones in the PICU with it playing on the TV in the corner of your room while I met with the team rounding, to this one. It will be the two of us (and the dogs). We have food but not really needing lots of sugar and snacks to keep us focused. It's different...
I miss you, Aaron. I miss the me I was before you left. I thought I knew pain, knew heartache, but it was only a shadow of what was to come. There is no preparation for burying your child. None.
And that's probably good.
I love you.
Love,
Mama
“You meet grief without introductions”
― Jane Edberg
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