Story

As I lay in your room last night looking around, as I do every night, I see a myriad of things from you. Because we replaced the flooring, I had to remove all your things. I replaced them mostly just as they were. Some things I could not, or weren’t practical. Not that setting aside an entire room in your house to not have someone live in is exactly “practical”. But in a matter like this heartbreak… it’s “practical” to me.

There are many items that I look at and can see you touching. Holding. Playing. Spinning. I set up a corner glass display case for all of your toys that seemed like they belonged there. I’ve also been adding to them with things I find while we’re away that remind me of you, or that you would like. I bring them home and set them up in your display case.

Each night I light a candle and grab a toy and a book and sit on your bed. I read to you and then play with your toy. While I play with your toy, I think of your soft voice chatting over the nursery monitor that we kept on to listen in. I’d hear your toy (if it was a vTech that made noise or your sleep sheep that would play ocean sounds or a mothers heart beat noise) or I’d just hear your voice. You didn’t talk, persay, but you communicated. And I can hear it in my head most nights. Soft “Ma…ma……ma……..ma”. Some T sounds…. “Ta….ta……ta….” I’d lay in my bed and listen. Unless I am completely exhausted, I could not fall asleep until I no longer hear you making noise, and would go in, grab your toy that you were either holding onto still in sleep, or make sure you were covered up and comfy.

My nightly routine of going into your room started 23 days after you died, as I’d read some things about the aid that rituals could bring people who had lost children. And besides days where I’m not home, this ritual continues every night. Your buddy Kathy, who watches the house while we’re gone lights the candles (one on the mantel of the fireplace too, where another shrine exists) and keeps the home fires burning for you.

While you were here, almost all of our focus was on you, or at least making sure we were making a long term home for you. Now that you’re gone, it’s a daily slog of just thinking about you and trying to pretend that I don’t want to run and join you so people don’t worry about me. Some days are harder than others. And some things are harder than others. It is true that to continue on takes a large amount of bravery. The easy way would be destructive to many I feel. At least psychologically. And haven’t we all suffered enough? If I have to continue to suffer in order for others not to, maybe that’s the point. After all, the responsibility lays at my feet. To leave now would also mean that there’d be one less person on this planet who’d tell your story. And I think that is the part that truly keeps me going. Through me, you still live with us on some level. And that brings some semblance of happiness.

You are loved. Beyond words. And you will always be. As I lay in your room every night, I can feel you there with me, quietly chatting, the warmth of your body against mine, as you slowly fall asleep. And I remember. I remember who we were together and the joy you bring me. I will always remember, and I will always tell your story.