Grief is a Quiet Gentle Thing

Grief is a quiet, gentle thing this year. It flutters and flaps around inside my head like a bird trapped in a house, beating its wings against the windows, trying to escape.  I feel it. 

My eyes leak for no reason. Of course the reason is that my boy is dead. Dead but not gone, held forever close in my heart. 

I feel him near. I talk to him. He has not left. 

At first I counted Mondays. One week without him, then two, three four. After a while I began to count months without him, checking them off every time the 18th rolled around. One month, then two, three, four. Now I count in years. 

The birthday song plays in my head. Are you one? Are you two? Are you three? I stop at six. Six birthdays without him. Six years gone.

 Today we celebrate his 29th birthday. My boy would be growing up, if he were here. I have planned a whole birthday party for him. I think he would be delighted. 

I wake, excited to make his cake. He's going to love it. Four layers I think, red velvet with fluffy white frosting. I bought Toaster Studels for breakfast. I'll eat them with him today. This evening we'll take him out for dinner. I made sure his brother took the day off. Later we will try to escape THE DRAGON'S CAVE! (dun, dun, dun) He always loved dragons

A part of me feels like maybe I've finally tipped over the edge and lost my grip on sanity. I have planned a day of fun events for a boy who is dead. I bought his favourite breakfast. I will make his cake. Wherever he is, does he know? Does he appreciate it? Does he feel loved? Is it possible I am trying to make up for the ways I failed him in life? Does he forgive me? Or have I just gone crazy with a gentle quiet grief?

Either way, it is where I am today. The trapped bird that is my grief throws itself at the windows in my mind. Sometimes I want to scream. Sometimes I want to hide under my desk at work. Sometimes I want to hurl abuse at people who tell me to enjoy my days off. Don't they understand?  I know they don't, they don't even know he once existed. 

Wait! There are people in the world, in my world, that have never heard Zac's name. I want to scream it from the rooftops. ZAC! My first born son, my boy, my buddy. He took a part of my heart with him when he died. But the world keeps turning and my life keeps moving and new people come who have no idea that my heart is broken. That feels deeply wrong. Like I have failed him. Perhaps I need my own scarlet letter, something to brand me as the woman who lost a child.  Would people ask me about him? Or would they turn away to avoid my grief? 

Anyways, the screaming in my head continues.  I don't curl up under my desk. And when my eyes leak for no reason clients are kind enough to suggest the maybe I have allergies. Yes, that must be it. I get out of bed. I do my job. Today I will make cake. Life goes on, but not without him. He is held close. I wear his angel wings on a necklace around my neck. I do not forget. 

Today I celebrate the boy who made me a mom.