Ronan,
It’s days like today, when I’ve had so much going on and I feel like I’ve been doing so “well,” whatever that means, that I have to stop myself ten times a day, close my eyes, and sit inside this reality of mine. These are the days when I have to consciously think about your death, because the time that once stood still now feels like it’s flying right past me. I keep hearing, “Look how much you’ve already done. You should be so proud of yourself.” I pause when I hear that. Am I doing too much? Am I not crying enough? Am I honoring this pain, or am I distracting myself so I don’t have to feel it? I worry about that. But I can’t stop what keeps coming my way. I can’t just sit back and ignore it. That would feel like throwing the gifts you’re bringing me straight into the trash. I don’t have a choice. I have to keep up with what’s unfolding if I’m going to accomplish whatever it is you’re asking me to do.
So on days like today, when I’m not bombarded with fifty things, I close my eyes a lot. I take deep breaths. I let myself go back to the saddest moment of my life, when you took your last breath. I let the sadness engulf me and I allow it to exist. I embrace it. I nurture it. I don’t hide from it. I give myself quiet moments in the car, driving alone, looking for you in the rearview mirror. I go into the grocery store alone and have to mentally talk myself through the experience. The world looks different to me now.
I go to the older Fry’s instead of the fancy one we used to go to. It feels safer there. The people don’t blind me with bright smiles. In fact, so many of them look weighed down that it makes me ache for them. I cry in the grocery store, not because of my own pain, but because I see the pain of others — the man with mental illness talking to the pancake mix, the homeless woman with one shoe missing, the little kids covered in dirt while their mom snaps at them to put the cereal back because it’s too expensive. Has the world always been this sad, and I just never saw it? Did you make me so happy that sadness simply didn’t exist in our world? You made every second of my life feel full, no matter where we were. We could have been in the middle of a war zone and I would have been happy as long as we were together. Now it feels like I’m in the middle of a war, except it lives inside my head, and you are not here. How does someone survive that? People tell me all the time how strong I am. That confuses me. I don’t feel strong. I feel like I don’t have a choice. I feel like I am a fighter because I love you so much that I will do whatever it takes to keep going. Maybe that’s what strength is. To me, it’s just love.
For not having a busy day, it ended up being a busy one. I was gone most of it, and tonight your brothers had a baseball game. I almost had a panic attack thinking about going back to that field without you. I never wanted to be the mom who sat and watched the entire game. I wanted to be the mom chasing you around, never fully able to sit still because you were too busy climbing fences or throwing dirt in protest that you weren’t old enough to play. Tonight I sat and watched your beautiful brothers. I sat there while tears streamed down my face because one of the boys on the team reminds me so much of what you would have been — naturally athletic, ahead of the other kids because of your older brothers. Your daddy knows that too. He came over several times, put his hand on my shoulder, and asked if I was okay. I gave him my half-smile and nodded while the tears hid behind my sunglasses and fedora. I did the best I could, but sitting at that game was beyond painful. I don’t think it will ever feel normal again. I felt like a fish out of water. I could almost hear your little voice yelling, “Gooooo Quinny! Gooooo LiLi!” You would have been the team mascot, hanging on the fence and furious you couldn’t be out there with them.
I am so sorry. I swear this feels like my fault. I was your mom. It was my job to keep you safe. I failed. You died, and now what? Now I’m sitting at little league games pretending anything about this life is normal. Baseball games and snow cones and laughter continue, as if the world didn’t stop. They continue for everyone except the mother who doesn’t get to bring her almost five-year-old to watch his brothers play. She brings his blanket instead and holds it in her lap because he is gone. Who is in charge of this so-called life? I think I’ve said it before, but I want a motherfucking refund.
That’s all I can write tonight, little one. I’m exhausted. I’ve been falling asleep easily lately because of all the moving and going I’ve been doing during the day. I love you. I miss you. I hope you are safe.
Goodnight, baby doll. Sweet dreams.
xoxo
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