Maybe it’s stupid to still wish for something when the clock strikes 11:11. But I do, every time.
And to think, somewhere in this past week, Michael would have been digging into his first birthday cake with a silly hat on. This post probably wouldn’t be about missing him, but about celebrating his birthday, the milestones he’d reached over the year of growth, and the wonders he’d already experienced.
Instead I’m left here, feeling hollow and empty, whilst on the cusp of my 20th birthday and my favourite holiday of all, Christmas. Somehow the glimmer of seasonal waning – from the bursting glory of life that is Spring and Summer, to the graceful, beautiful death of Autumn and Winter – holds serious sway over my emotional self this year.
I look back at my last posts in November, chipper and cheerful, blistering along through the holiday season without a glance towards my not-son. My brief breaths about him are short, undeveloped and mostly flippant in regard to the depth of my despair. To this day, Fil and I still haven’t seem to come to terms with it. Briefly, I think, we both realise how dark the last dregs of November truly are, the possibilty of what life would be like were he to have stayed.
Despite the love of my family, the warmth of my son’s adoration and the heat of Fil’s love, I’ve allowed myself to feel sorrow and regret. I think it’s something you earn, when the bad happens, and you bury it with so much good that by the time it’s eaten a hole in your heart, you barely remember it’s existance.
I think I said it best in my non-fiction piece, The Longest Road,
“Here I am almost a full year later, and instead of falling upon the crutches of old, stale wounds, I try to continue that warm bath of healing. We are just trying to heal. In that motion of life, the rocking of our boat on the currents of fate, we find it in us to start on that journey again. The longest road, yet untraveled, and out feet just barely at the start.”
In the end, I am not saddened by what became of my not-son, I am saddened by what has become of me in his loss. Sometimes, though it is hardly explainable, I feel like a not-mother, as if, in some way, I have been left un-wholed by him.
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