Wednesday, March 15, 2017

Because of you...

Dear Louie,
You would have turned 3 this year...(deep breath).

Time is a weird thing.  It's both been a slow and fast few years.  My grief feels like it has gone through the stages of a child growing: first, I was barely able to hold up my head with the heavy despair, then I learned to sit and keep my balance of life and death, and eventually started to slowly crawl while carrying the weight of loss and love.  Today I can walk with you in my heart and know that the way that you transformed me will continue to shape me for the rest of my life.

Because of you, I choose to love more, not fear the loss of love.  When I miss you so much I can feel it in my bones,  I choose to experience the depths of sorrow, so I can also experience the peaks of joy.  When I worry that you will be forgotten, I choose to honor your life with gratitude for the mundane moments rather than retract into a shelter of numbness.  When I don't know how I survived, I will choose to hope in a life of brightness, not darkness.

For your birthday this year, your Dad and I are volunteering with Tandem Bay Area.  Honestly, it's hard to know how to celebrate, so we're trying it out this year.  As with all things, I want to iterate and figure out how to make your birthday work for us.  And we will continue to find ways to create traditions to honor your place in our family.

With your little sister running around, I often look at rambunctious little boys and wonder if you would have been like that. We'll never know, my sweet boy, as your 3-year old version can only exist in my heart and imagination.  What I do know is that your little life will always have a big impact.

On days like your birthday, I remember this poem that was shared with me right after you left us.
Life is eternal; and love is immortal; and death is only a horizon; and a horizon is nothing save the limit of our sight. 
I miss you and love you every day, little buddy.  I look forward to the day when we will see each other again.

Love,
Mom