Ferdinand, my dear sweet child,
last week I ordered some clothing for your little sister, from a website that sells really cute, organic clothing for children. It’s not fancy stuff, but oh, so adorable. And the colors, I like their color choices because girls are not limited to pink and yellow and red. I looked at their color chart, enjoying reading the names of the colors (marine, port, midnight, dragonfly, basil, storm, bubble…) and wondered, idly even, what would look becoming on you. You, whose eye color we will never know. And we are still waiting to find out about your sister’s eye color. I think they are greenish-brown, or perhaps grayish-blue.
This week I received the clothing, and because last week was Earth Day, they also sent me a small treeling to plant. Somehow I felt it was like a consolation prize for me– can’t watch your baby grow? Plant this and watch a tree grow! Nah… of course, they do not know about you, but I felt it that way. I guess I just miss you terribly much and got a bit bitter. I have not planted that treeling yet. It’s a Colorado Spruce, and I don’t think it’s going to do well here, but maybe up at the cabin it will be nice. That is, if it does not die whilst in my care, me with my through-and-through black thumb.
You were there when Lyra was born, I believe you escorted her, I feel it, I do. But you seemed to have also just dropped her off and left. Like you’re in a hurry. You did not stay, did not linger to chat, to let me feel your breath on my face. You dropped Lyra off, bid a swift and easy fare-thee-well, and off you went again.Yes, I am upset with you about that.
And, I can only find peace by telling myself it is because you are free. Your choice. I find peace by telling myself I know too little. I cannot find the edge of the Universe, and even if I do, then that means beyond that edge is yonder blue, more mysteries than I will ever know, so how can I say it is sad that you are dead? Until I die, I won’t know what it is like. Perhaps it will be nice; fun, even. But this is too hard for me to do, son. Freaking hard and it makes me want to spit fire. In this society, here, down in this realm, we think death is a bad thing- sad, morbid, terrible. But you know what I’ve been thinking of late? — the worst thing is not having your child die. The worst thing is being alive after your child has died. That’s why the other night I laid and look at your father and silently told him, I wish to live one day less than you do, so I won’t have to suffer the pain of watching you die. Selfish, I know.
I often imagine how it is for you, where you are… what is that space out there like, how you travel, how you communicate, how you laugh. And often, I wish, fists clenched, that I will be able to join you in that space one day. No more parallel universes.
Some days, I am at peace. Not too many of them, but some. And some other days, well, I just want to throw things at people, because it hurts crazy on the inside. Those are the days when I think I will never see you, and when I put a limit on you. That you can only be dead, done, and no more. I have to then remind myself who knows what happens beyond the last heartbeat, the last breath? Won’t you come and tell me about it all, so I don’t have to wait so long to find out?
I miss you so ever terribly.