As I dropped off my thirteen-year old son, Liam, at the soccer fields on Saturday morning, I took a look around at this place that has been a part of our lives for about ten years. Ten years equals approximately twenty seasons, though there were one or two seasons in the early years that we skipped our beloved soccer. Although they have renovated the fields, they still feel like home. I remember feeling apprehensive at the news that they were updating, thinking that the change would create a whole new character for our favorite place to play soccer. When we returned for the first time after the renovations, I was pleasantly surprised that the character had remained the same.
Pulling back onto the road, out of the soccer complex, I felt the onslaught of tears. The salty tears poured down my face amidst pain and sobs. I cried for the loss of my sweet Nolan who loved to play soccer. I cried for the fact that he never saw the fields in their new state. I cried for the fact that he was truly coming into his own in soccer that last season, Fall 2012. I cried.
Then I felt guilt. I realized that it had been awhile since I had cried so fervently for my son.
I hurt daily, constantly, because I miss my son. But life gets busy. I have four living children who require me to be present in the moment. We have school, soccer, dance, volleyball, playdates, parties, spend-the-nights, meals, shopping, doctor appointments, laundry, life. Yes, life. Life has had to go on.
It hurts so much to think that we are going on without Nolan.
It feels blatantly wrong.
Yet, I know it is only fair for my other children. I want them to lead full, happy lives. I don’t want them to wallow in sorrow and sadness. I want them to have joy.
And so there is guilt. There is guilt and gut-wrenching pain and sorrow.