Dear Aaron,
Easter Sunday.
Again.
He is Risen, and again, you are not . . . yet.
I sit here in waiting for the sun to rise, watching as I have so many Easter mornings, thinking of you and of Gramma.
Grief quiets, a bit. Still there, still aching, still longing. But not as bone crushing, gut punching, heart wrenching as early days . . . most of the time.
It's cold again this year, and my spring bulbs have bloomed. I look at the window waiting for those first beams of light and see the yellows and reds, and further down some white and purple. Planted last fall, just before the first hard frost, they slept all winter and now months later are coming up.
A little while ago I pulled up to your spot as "Spider's Web" played. As I rolled down the window, I could see silver threads among the grass from spring spiders, and white moths danced among the evening air. The next day on the way home from the bus stop, a butterfly flitted around Linnaea and me. It alternately followed and led us home.
Is this your way of saying, "hey, I'm here!"?
My sister told me a little while ago that she had the distinct impression that Gramma wanted her to tell me that you were well, happy, content, and busy. And also so very aware of what is happening in my life. I pray that's true. Somehow I feel it is.
Oh, I still miss you, my son. Part of me is empty and will be until I hold you again.
Blessed Easter.
He is Risen.
And someday, I will be with you again.
Love,
Mama
And spin, spin, spin
Silver wings to fly and sing
Upon the wind.
High above the trees, across the seas
And through the sky
To the rainbow’s bend, where stories never end
And dreams never die.
