Why can't I dream of him? Would it give me any comfort if I did?
Six years ago I sat in a different house from the one I sit in today, across town, disbelieving. "I'm sorry, he's gone," the doctor told me that morning, and my life fell apart.
Last week I sat in the candlelight at a Christmas service for people who have a hard time at the holidays, in the very same chapel where we gathered to say goodbye to Ben six years ago. I felt him there. I always do. I almost never feel him with me anywhere else. And I talked to him.
Where are you, little one?
I'm here, mama, I'm here.
Right here, he said, and I felt a flutter in my heart.
I'm always here.