I curl up in a ball, wrap my arms around my middle and rock. I tell myself it's okay if I need to stay in bed today.
8:19 am - My phone rings, a call from my boy's best friend. We talk, share news. He tells me he thinks of my boy sometimes, when he hears a song or sees a movie, but it's easier to just not think about it. He says he knows it will be a hard few days. I assure him I'll get through it.
I don't know if he called to comfort me in my grief or because he needed comfort. But it helped. I can move again.
9:21 am - My phone dings with a text from my sister. She asks if we will be eating chocolate cake tonight. I tell her we will and she wishes she could share it. I send her the recipe so she can make her own cake. The more people who eat cake today the better.
I began to make cake. I move like I'm carrying the weight of the world on my back. Bent, stooped, slowly. I make cake by rote, while tears leak from my eyes.
11:32 am - My phone rings. "How are you doing?" he asks. I can't answer. I just sob.
The cake is in the oven and I am curled up on the couch, under a blanket. Moving takes too much effort.
A few minutes later he stops by to drop off a tub of frosting and some peanut butter cups for the cake. He holds me while I sob.
12:18 pm - I send a text. "Can you guys stop by after school?" My littles tumble through the door. Quarantine be damned. I need them. They ask what I need. I need them to eat cake with me.
1:35 pm - Big boys stop by after work. What do I need they wonder. I need them to eat cake. For a little while there is noise and laughter and stories while children scoop ice cream and eat cake. I hug each of them. I tell them I love them. Life is fragile and fleeting. We need to cherish these moments.
2:23 pm - Alone again I scroll through Facebook. My friend Robin has shared a blog post of mine, to honor my boy and remind the world that life is short and we can make a difference. I begin to sob again.
Curled up on the couch, tucked under a blanket, a kitten in my lap, tears leaking from swollen eyes. I have no words. No one to reach for comfort.
Grief is quiet this year. It is personal, solitary. 4 years, 4 birthdays, 4 death days, 4 Christmases, 2 high school graduations, a wedding and so much more. Without him. Time does not heal wounds. It does not dull the ache. It just makes the howling pain quieter, softer. There are no words, because they've all been said already. Grief still swallows me whole and leaves me gasping for breath.
