It Never Gets Old

On a day like today, I feel as though I am trudging through deep mud in lead boots.  Trying to pull myself up by my bootstraps with minimal success.  Despite the fantastic weather, plentiful granddaughter time, and phone call from a close friend.  Despite creating a mental gratitude list, planning an upcoming family dinner, and going for a brisk walk along the ocean with my husband. Filled with penetrating sadness, I feel fragile, missing my son acutely. On the verge of tears much of the day.  Full moon energy or just because?  Thankfully, days like today are not the norm, and tomorrow awaits.  "One day at a time" -  it never gets old. 

Still 25

Tomorrow will be the second time I observe, rather than celebrate, the day of my youngest child's birth.  For the past week or so, I have occasionally found myself thinking about how old Michael would have been this year.  I would consider the number 27, and toss it around in my mind, trying to make some sense of it.  Then, while swimming lengths a couple of days ago, I became curious about this line of thinking.  How old he would be is no longer relevant, since he is no longer here.  So why does my imagination want to play with this notion?  Is it perhaps a desire to hold onto what was?  My children's ages were always two years apart, and it remained that way for twenty-five years: a very simple pattern: 2, 4, 6 or 11, 13, 15.   The last time the numbers fit was two years ago.  It is a confusing process trying to adjust to the idea that such a fact can change, and that counting by twos is no longer accurate.  My children are now 31, almost 29, and still 25.  Both the pattern and I have had to adapt.  Happy Birthday son. 

Urge to Call

Find myself longing to talk with my daughters more often.  Phone conversations every few days.  Meeting up weekly if possible.  Craving that ongoing connection.  Even more so than before.  In part, to counter my sense of vulnerability.  Of loss.  While reflecting on my recent phone conversations with them, the urge to call my son came on with great intensity.  The desire to speak with him as I could when he had a physical presence.  To ask about his week.  Touching base.  Longing for the banter.  Grateful for the new style of communication we do have, but often missing the old.