Monday, May 1, 2006

rambling pre-write

My head is heavy with the concrete knowledge that my son is gone, a long six feet out of reach, but in my chest, it's like standing at the seashore. If I'm very still, the waves sneak in and steal the sand from beneath my feet till I have to shuffle and catch my balance, remind myself, lose him all over again.

His picture sits on the end table behind me. 8x10, smiling, large as life and smelling like only a fresh-out-of-the-bath baby can, and sometimes, when I'm not thinking and turn too fast, while my feet are sinking into the void of diremembrance, it looks 3-D, like he's really there, and my breath catches somewhere around my belly button and waits to meet my heart as it falls backwards into realization.

He is in everything, everything but his crib and my arms, and they both ache like a warm spring breeze in the mimosa, all acceptance of beauty and emptiness, where the cicadas have forgotten the words. Only the damselflies know, and it's too dry here for them, so far from the pond.

I close my eyes, unsure whether I'm trying to remember or trying to forget, so I do both. Forgetting that he's gone and remembering the presence of his warmth beside me, counting the rises of his chest by the light of a distant moon that raises the tide that washes away the solidity from beneath my feet.


  1. Every inch of me feels all that you have said. I ache for you...for all of us. If I could give an ounce of myself to take away your pain, even if for just a short moment, I would...over and over again. I love you, Erin.

  2. I read, I see, I feel. From out here. . . . . . and you're all in my prayers!

  3. Erin,

    This probally isn't the right place to say this, but when reading NC blogs I saw your post about Nova and came here.

    I wasn't going to read or comment here again, and probally won't after this, but I had to express my sadness and sympathy over the loss of your son. I'm deeply and truly sorry you lost him.