My precious son, I do it nearly every day. People as me why I put myself through it-looking at your handsome young face only weeks before you were so wrongly taken.
I have thought about it many times, Andrew. It rips my heart into. It reminds me of the failure of what I felt was a holy vow. I think of you there in the chair in your room, shouting out, “Mamma, I love ya, Mame!” time after time.
I hear your little brother crying because you got the red ball when it hit the goal and your dad shouted at you and you loudly complain, “It’s always me!”
Yes, it is.” His voice reverberates through me. I hear your father’s remark, (hating it). “No, it isn’t,” my heart screams.
It got so old, that tired comment, The one he yelled to every one of you when a younger sibling complained.
So why do I have your picture as my home screen on the computer, smiling at me, unknowing, hopeful, happy, healthy. It’s so simple, really. I touch your hair, brush it with my fingers, trace the line of your eye brows, circle the shape of your eyes, just like mine. I remember the tiny chicken pox scar on the top of your nose, see the way your top lip is shaped in a perfect bow-the bottom lip full and sensuous.
I use my finger as a magical pen and draw your shirt collar, the tendons in your neck, the shape of your chin that made your face so perfect. I gently track the outline of your ear, as I often did when I played with your hair. I rub the soft pink of your cheeks, see the tiny “out of line” placing of your teeth that no one but me would notice.
I hear your father’s remark, (hating it).
And for just a moment, one soft breath, you are here where you belong and I am alive and life is worth living. It is all I have. The pain is worth it.