My dearest boy, how I miss you. It doesn’t get easier does it, does it get easier where you are? Those sentiments have proven themselves to be empty. Time does not heal, but has become my worst enemy, deepening the heartache and intensifying the pain. Every morning do you watch me as I raise my head, weary from another night of no sleep, my eyes hurt, another night of crying, crying because I just want to hold you my sweetheart. To run my fingers through your silky soft hair, to wiggle your little toes one by one, to watch the edges of your lips curl as you break into a gorgeous smile, and hear your sweet laughter as you revel in delight. What I would do to hold you again.
When you graced this Earth the Sun was brighter, the flowers blossomed longer, and mummy’s life was filled with a love that I never knew existed, it was heaven on Earth. You were heaven on earth. Now even on days that seem warm, bright and sunny there is always a darkness slowly seeping through. The depth of depression is debilitating, the anxiety exhausting, the intensity of love manifests in to what seems like a ball of fire in my chest, with no outlet, my heart aches. Now as I look up into the night sky, seeking to escape from a world with no light, the stars are brighter than they’ve ever been, because I know that you live among the stars.
As time has passed the reality of what life without you is relentless torture. There is no getting used to it, I can’t get used to it and nor do I want to. I have come to realise that my grief for you is mine alone, no one but me feels it, no one but me owns it and that’s because no one but me will ever love you more. All mummy wants to do is climb into your little cot, lay down where you last rested your head for the last time, lay my cheek where your soft little cheek touched the mattress for your last sleep, close my eyes and take my last breath, just as you did, to take the same journey that you traveled on. To open my eyes and to be with you again.
At the end of mummy’s bed, the jumper still hangs there, the jumper that I last cuddled you in, the jumper that you last snuggled into when you were so poorly. Mummy can’t wash it. Your sweet strawberry smell lingers, a couple of strands of your wispy hair still cling on, knowing you touched this jumper, knowing you cuddled your mummy, knowing you sought comfort from me in this very jumper. Knowing that this is the jumper I was wearing when I carried you to bed for the last time. It’s funny isn’t it Grumpus, how one jumper can be so significant. Sometimes I sit and look at it, like it’s a precious treasure, but you see, to me it is. This was what mummy was wearing the last time you ever hugged your mummy in. A part of the most prominent memory I will ever have of you, not a happy one, knowing now how poorly you were, but to me, it is the last time I ever hugged you and that is the most precious memory I will ever have; and no matter how many people say hold on tight to my wonderful memories of you, that’s all they are, memories, that’s all I have left, and I can’t hug memories.