I Live Now, But I Live Then.

Time is a fierce current that rips you from one moment to the next as you grieve a child. Standing on a shrouded, isolated strip of dry land today, I find my myself back at Justin’s college graduation, ten years ago.  It feels like yesterday. He was relaxed and laughing, full of hugs and high spirits. And that smile of his, it was honest and authentic, it matched the piercing blue sky that day with its high puffy clouds.

He was dead twenty-seven months later. I live in that twilight zone where life is frozen at that moment in September. I am on the shore where his car sank, yet I am breathing in this space going on eight years later. I live now, but I live then. There is no reconciliation with the passage of time since his death.

I live and breath his death when I wake in the morning. I live the moment of his arm around my shoulders after graduation. He is almost a foot taller than me. In these moments, I forget to pay bills. I deposit checks twice. I read a recipe and still can’t comprehend the words. That’s grief.

He stands on shore smiling and life’s current snatches me from him. Each year, each holiday, each life event summons us to corral our resources and engage life without Justin. There is no fall back, no script, no familiar routine, every day asks something different of us. Even at seven years without him, living the death of Justin is new. We make it up as we go along.

I have gone underground with my grief again, strangling the voice of my grief. I believe if I write what is inside, I would shock myself at the anger that has built up this year. I have had a medical issue rear its head and I can’t pound out miles of walking and it terrifies me. Movement is how I process grief. For seven years I would exhaust my body everyday, and in October it said no more. Now I am caged with my grief.

I want my child and I can’t have him. I want to see my surviving son stand with his brother, and I will not have that desire fulfilled. I am not just angry, I am pissed. I am pissed at the world, at people, at my life. I am not so pissed with God anymore. As long as I keep God, church, and religion separate, He and I get on well.

I had submitted a chap book to a contest, it was not chosen, but I did get a lovely rejection note. I am considering posting the collection on the blog. I read once that new work cannot be created until we have released that which we have written. Those unreleased stories weigh us down like a long pregnancy. Created words need birthing.

Perhaps releasing those words written will allow fresh water to enter in, a cleansing, bracing water to carve a new channel as we live this eighth year without Justin.

Be kind and gentle to you in your grief as we near Mother’s Day.