Pain is what we have.
The pain of missing Sammy so very very much.
To look over the breakfast table and know that there's one missing.
To know that there will never ever ever be another photograph of him.
To know that the milestones that he celebrated are the only ones of his that we will ever celebrate.
To know that his life just stopped.
This is pain.
And yet...if you came to me and offered to erase it all...I would not let you.
I would not erase those days and weeks and months and years with him.
I wouldn't even erase the 33 days, the last 33 days of his life. The 33 days that we lived with the real knowledge that someday he wouldn't be here.
Would I erase the calendar in my mind?
Because each day, I can tell you where I was last year on this day. I can tell you that last year on this day we went to lunch at Michael's. I can tell you that Sammy and I talked about his funeral. I can tell you that the next day we went into the city and got passports for the kids for our trip to Israel.
The calendar in my mind might grow a little fainter. Next year, I might not be able to tell you exactly where I was on this date.
Then again, I might....
I totally get why these fairy tales and magical stories believe that erasing the memories will make it all better. But you know, in those stories, it always seems to catch up with them. The memories always seem to come back, to return in some way that helps the characters to learn how important those stories are, how important those events were, and that even with the pain...they would rather know, rather remember, rather have the life that was lived.
And so would I.
Missing him every single day. But I wouldn't have given it up.
334 days since I last kissed him goodnight.
A year ago today: What he said when we told him he was going to die -- a conversation that no parent, ever, ever, ever should have to have with their child.
|He always wanted to hold Solly...|
|Reading to his little sister|