All This Time

After all this time, six years, I thought I might feel differently. I thought that maybe I wouldn't think of him every day, maybe I wouldn't still cry on his death day and birth day. But what did I know, back then? Not much, quite obviously.

I'm feeling very sad today, sadder than I could have imagined once upon a time. It's ok, I know, but at times I am so tired of feeling sad, so tired of missing Ben. I don't feel sad every day, but this week - well, this week is different, as I remember what we so nearly had. The Christmas songs don't help, the lights, the ornaments, all of it. Those things have always made me feel melancholy, long before my child died, and now, viewed through the lens of my loss, make me feel even worse.

In six years, what have I learned? That I will always miss him, every day, for as long as I live, or at least until Alzheimer's or some other form of dementia takes my memories of him away. Missing him is forever. Sad is forever too, but not in the same way. That will come and go. And I have realized that I will forever be the mother of a baby; as the rest of us grow older, as my two other children will grow to adulthood, as my husband and I begin to go gray, Ben will always be as he was the day he died: an infant, full of potential and possibility. Is it any wonder, then, how I long for a baby in my life? Any wonder that my arms still ache, after all this time, for the chance to hold him again?

Six Years On

I never dream of him, though I have always wanted to. I've wanted a chance to see him, because I can't picture how he would look real, here. I've had dreams about people I have lost, dreams in which I've been granted the chance to say goodbye. Other dreams have ended when I wake up, bewildered, because in my dream the person I love has really been alive all these years, and I've been lied to about their death.

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.

Where?

Right here, he said, and I felt a flutter in my heart.

I'm always here.