I don’t want William to be a memory

Yesterday I collected the DVD recording of William’s funeral. I didn’t take it out of my handbag, and it sat in the corner like an elephant in the room. Everyone had forgotten I had collected it, they were focused on the CBT trauma therapy I had been too just before. That suited me, when I arrived home, everyone wanted to know how I felt the CBT trauma therapy had gone and how I had been affected by it. No-one realised that the withdrawn silence was due to the DVD that was sat in my bag.

I toyed with the idea of playing the DVD, whether or when I could watch it, if at all. But I couldn’t stand it any longer, I didn’t know what emotions watching it would evoke, but the emotions that not watching it were evoking were becoming more and more difficult to hide. So, we watched it.

I was gone as soon as seeing ‘In memory of William Oscar Mead’ came onto the screen. Seeing my son’s name in flowers, seeing my son’s nickname in flowers and hearing the song we had chosen to walk in to.

Then we came in carrying William’s tiny white coffin. Knowing William’s little body was in there. I just looked at the TV, desperately wanted to jump into the screen, take William out of the coffin and cuddle him, hold him so close, breath him in, kiss his face, cry over him and love him, physically. The raw, painful reality of never seeing him again came flooding out. My tears the words my heart cannot say. At this moment in time, I would do anything, anything in this world to see William, even if it was in that tiny white coffin, to see his face, to feel his skin, to hold his hand and to feel his body close to mine.

I think i will have to watch the DVD several times, maybe more for me take in the readings, the poems, and the people. I can barely remember anything from that day, I can’t remember standing up and reading two poems or the letter I had written for my precious boy. “Being your Mummy and Daddy made our lives worthwhile, only YOU gave us that.” At that point i looked across at his coffin, emphasising the word ‘you’, maybe somewhere, subconsciously I wanted to make sure William heard me, but I think William heard it all.

The curtains closed and the song that led us out begun and I knew then I would never see William again. As I watched this on the DVD I relived that moment all over again, watching myself having to walk away was heart wrenching. Sobbing, the screen turned off and ‘In memory of William Oscar Mead’ appeared once more.

I don’t want William to be a memory.