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A Mother, am I?

July 6, 2010

I’m a mother.

I have a son.

A precious one, I carried, waited for, loved and held close.

I am a mourner.

I have lost my son.

A precious one I cried, wept over, and will never let go.

I won’t get to hear him call me mother.

I won’t get to cheer for him in sports.

I get to sit and look at an urn, when I would rather look at him sleeping in his crib.

Instead of holding him in my arms,

I get to hold my cat.

Not the same!

I look at pictures to remind me of his face.

My memory gets a little more hazy, a little more distant each day.

I see my son’s yawn, when my husband yawns.

I see Michael in the mirror each morning.

I see his smile when my husband smiles.

I see his stubborn chin in my face.

These small reminders of him are nice…

He was such a perfect blend of us both.

I rage against the injustice of it.

I cry out against the pain, the loss.

There is no sense to be made of it…

No niceties to gloss over the stark reality of the depth of pain I feel.

Only the glaring, harshness of grief, of anger greet me in the morning.

You think that since I don’t cry, I don’t mourn him.

You think because I seem to be okay, that I am okay.

You think that this grief is easy to set aside.

You think wrong, so wrong.

Sometimes, if I cry one more tear today, I’ll go crazy.

Sometimes, if I don’t pretend that things ARE okay, I’ll lose my precarious touch with reality.

Sometimes, I wish this grief would go to Hell, and send my son back from Heaven.

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