I’m sitting here filling up my Google calendar with appointments for those must-do things before the big move. It’s amazing to me how much has changed in my life over the last ten years…six years…year. I’m thrilled and terrified and missing my son so much. My father too, but today I miss my son more. I love that there are all these positive changes happening, but I wish my life wasn’t changing without him.
I thought about this the other day…
I miss being a mom.
I miss loving him.
I still feel love for him, obviously, but it’s more of a theory or a passive experience (that has the ability to gut me out of the blue.) It feels like he only exists in my head now. He’s morphed from flesh to memory.
I can’t hug him or laugh with him on the phone. We can’t argue or reminisce. I can’t recount some stupid human moment of my day with him and he can’t mock me for it. I’ve lost roughly 4,000 inside jokes that only he would get. I’ll never pass on another book to him or converse with him about a book he recommended. He’ll never read the end of the book I was writing. We’ll never sit on the deck in my new backyard and clink beers while fragrant meats burn on the grill.
In a few weeks I will never again turn down a road we used to live on and remember us as a family doing mundane stuff that only means something now because the memory of a son is all I have.
And don’t even get me started on those grandchildren I had imagined spoiling one day. I’ll end up spending the afternoon packing tears in boxes instead of books.
Death is a real asshole. Fuck death.