There are days I don’t dwell on his death. Entire days where I manage for it not to pull me under even once. And then there are days like today, his birthday.
When I’ve cried quietly, but with all of my soul, for hours. Where I am consumed in my grief and longing for him so deeply that my body aches with every tear that falls. Times when my anger at his short life and swift death is so omnipresent that I can’t see straight.
I often find myself trying desperately to remember what it felt like to hold him, kiss him, smell him. But I can’t, I can’t remember anymore. Do you know what that’s like? To have forgotten pieces of your child like that? It’s excruciating.
Today, his 3rd birthday, has blanketed me in a familiar but distant pain that I haven’t felt for months. His birthdays are such a reminder of all the milestones, years, and connections we’ve had stolen from us since his death. And so, while we will celebrate this day of his birth, and the time we had with him, I am angry. Because this is not how it was supposed to be, and I will never be able to change that.