Where were you then?

Five years ago today, right about now, I was at the cemetery about to bury my son. My sweet tiny little boy was inside a white coffin just three feet in front of me and all I wanted to do was go and take him out. I remember honestly fretting about how we had him dressed, whether he would be too hot or too cold. I really just wanted to hold him. I still just want to hold him. 5 years.

Now we are five

Owen, this morning I woke early and watched the sunrise, as I do every year on the day of your birth. Its a quiet time when the rest of the world falls away and again it is just me and you, as it was in those final moments before your birth five years ago.

 I try so hard to celebrate you and some years like this one, it is difficult. Some years I am selfish and angry and want to scream at the heavens. "It was not enough. It is not enough!" I want my son here with me.

Some years I find comfort in believing in heaven. In believing that one day I will enter heaven and you will at last be handed to me. That I will be able see you and smell you and memorize you all over again. That I will never again have to let you go.

Some years it is too hard to believe in anything. Then I look at science and statistics and just shake my head. Those numbers mean nothing and I cannot find you there.

Every year I turn to the sunrise. I sit in silence.

I hold my breath and wish that I was holding you.

1826

At the beginning, I often wondered where I would, who I would be all these days later. I would read blogs of women who had lost children years in the past and find them completely overwhelming.

I wanted the grief to be something I survived, past tense. But, I know now that it does not work that way. The grief and sorrow I feel about losing, holding and burying my son does not change. It is a constant. What changes is me.

I grow stronger and carrying him with me gets easier. Not everyday of course, like anything else, I have days when I am tired, or sick or sad and it feels so very hard and heavy. But, there are also ones where I feel strong and capable, where carrying him with me feels good and right.

I am learning that there really is no past tense of grieve. I will always grieve for Owen. Losing him will never be over, not as long as I am living. When I go back and read that, it stops me a bit. It sounds so dark and sad.

And there are days, like today, that it is. 5 years later.