Tuesday, April 1, 2014
It's strange how grief hits.
This winter has been hard on me. We have spent days, weeks, and months locked in our houses, keeping warm, all while a thick blanket of snow covered our lives. With every inch of snow that fell, the smaller my house felt, and the more panicked and restless I became. I struggled with entertaining 3 children, 2 of whom should have been at school. Day after day after day of snow closings and pent up energy became an awful jumbled mess of stress and frustration.
As winter has slowly started losing it's grip on the land, as our pond is defrosting, geese and ducks are returning to their nests, and green grass is pushing it's way up through the earth, I have found myself breathing a sigh of relief, thankful for the reprieve.
I've spent hours in the sun, soaking up the warmth, breathing in the fresh clean air that spring has brought. I've spent hours watching my children shoot baskets, become more confident on their bikes and scooters, all while working up the courage to let them go a little further from the house by themselves.
But with every new season a small part of me silently grieves.
As the kids begin to spend more time outside, I always discover their need for bigger clothing, larger shoes, and new outside toys. Their bike seats need to be raised, the training wheels taken off, and the baby toys are slowly finding their way to new homes that are full of expectation for a little one who will soon need them.
But a sad silent voice reminds me of a child the world will never know.
He was and is my son.
He would be 3 1/2 this spring. He would be running and riding a tricycle and discovering the world around him.
There will be no new shoes for him. There won't be digging through boxes of clothes that have been passed down from his brother waiting for him to grow just big enough to wear them. There won't be any swimming lessons or riding bikes. No running beside a wobbly bike as we release our hands from the seat and hold our breath that he just stays up. There will be no kissing boo boos and one less dirt ring around the bathtub from a day spent outside digging for worms.
There won't be tiny hands reaching up for me to pick him up to let him rest. There won't be popsicle goo on fingers to be washed, no potty accidents to clean up. There won't be any sleepy eyes with hands around my neck as we say our good night prayers.
And next fall, there will be a preschool teacher saying hello to her students who eagerly and anxiously await the world that will begin to widen. She will be a teacher that should have had the name "Joshua" on her class roster.
My heart. It aches.
Sometimes the reality that the world will never know Joshua brings me to my knees in the sadness and finality of losing him.
My heart aches as I continue to rejoice in the life that continues around me. It weeps for a world that will never know my son.