It’s been closer to three years than to two since the day I lost my son. When I mention him now, it’s usually “almost three years,” that I say instead of “two.”
Yet… it’s no easier. I suppose in some ways it is. The sun continues to rise and fall and life moves along at its rapid pace. I watch my living children grow and grow. But that ache, that deep ache is still there.
There are days that I am scrolling along through pictures online or in the house or on my phone and I will see one of Nolan. I will have a moment of being struck by the beauty of his face, the timeless quality it now has. The ache will become more pronounced for awhile. Sometimes my chin starts to quiver and tears fill my brown eyes. And I’ll have the thought, “Is he truly gone?” and I don’t want to believe that he is.
Of course I have accepted it. I have to. I can’t change it.
But I haven’t accepted it because it’s wrong.