When I came to this space, I was still ringing with the pain of loss. Ever fibre and nerve in my body was vibrating with missing him. I ate, breathed, slept pain. It was everything.
I wrote here in order to skim off the worst of it and put it somewhere it could be contained and confined. Somewhere it couldn't hurt me anymore. Somewhere I could read a response that said "Yes, I know. It is terrible and unbelievable and unjust and I'm sorry".
When I came here, I didn't have real friends anymore. I couldn't. They didn't know. They couldn't help me. Some of them even hurt me.
Then I started to write here, and I made a place for me in the pain. Some of you came with me to that place, some of you were already there and shared a spot beside you. It was amazing to have that connection with people who I didn't know, but who I knew so intimately.
Today, my days are filled with the "why???" and "can I??" and "come play" of the three year old. My nights are broken with that exhausting, but all-too-soon-over cry of the hungry infant. And five long, troubled, joyous years have passed. I now vibrate with life instead of death.
To say that I don't need you anymore would be wrong. I do need you, but in a different way. It is enough now to know that you walked with me along this path of grief. It is enough now to know that you are out there walking still.
There is something satisfying about where I am now. I have a son who was born 2 years and 3 hours after his brother, barely missing a shared birthday. I have a daughter who was born exactly 6 years to the day after her oldest brother was conceived. We look to the future.
I know now how I will be living with this thing called grief. It sits lightly on my shoulders, always present but not always acknowledged. Today I can bear the weight of it.
Each year, I will walk in memory of my boy. Each time I do, I will light a candle for your babies, too. Know that I think of them.
I didn't think I would want to say goodbye, but I do.