It happens most often as I am drifting off to sleep.
There is this one spot on the bedroom bookshelf where my eyes landed that first night-one paperback spine that instantly transports me to the moment I had to close my eyes on the day I found out my son would never come home again.
And it is fresh.
Absolutely, positively fresh.
Like “just happened” fresh.
You’d think that nearly eleven years of intervening experience, nearly eleven years of grief work, nearly eleven years of trying so darn hard to learn to tuck that feeling away deep down so it can’t escape would have worked whatever magic time is supposed to work.
But it hasn’t.
Oh, most days I can lock that lid down tight. I can distract my mind, busy my hands and keep my heart from wandering too close to despair.
Darkness though.
Shadows and silence and stillness give room for the memory to rise to the surface.
And it does.
My son is never coming home again.
Fresh.
Absolutely, positively fresh.
“Just happened” fresh.
❤
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