a few days ago your sister asked, “Do you think that Ferdinand knows that we love him?”
Of course, I told her, of course you do. You are fiercely, and gently loved. We never stopped, we never forgot. We still ache for you, and every moment we wish you were physically here with us.
Long ago I wrote that I did not think time was linear. And so one day I will meet someone and look into his eyes and know that he is you. And you will nod, to let me know that he is you. And often when I cannot fall to sleep at night, I lay in bed and think of you, and how that meeting will look like.
The last one was like this:
You knocked on the door. I opened it, and there you stood, a dashing young man with shoulder-length hair. You threw down your backpack onto the living room floor and sat down to remove your winged boots, knowing of course that we do not wear shoes at home. You shrugged off your jacket and told me, “Do not wash on warm, else the stardust and moonbeams will come off. I wanna keep them. Smell, you can smell them.” And I took your jacket in my hands and bent my head over to smell. Stardust and moonbeams. And the jacket still warm from your body heat.
And you walked in and behaved like you lived with us all along, you knew where everything was. You told me you think you’ve had enough of star-traveling. You were hungry, yes, and would love a hot bowl of miso soup. And you said you hoped I would soon bake you the best chocolate cake I ever can. You chattered along, telling of impossible stories and humming a tune occasionally. You grinned, you smiled, you laughed. Then you stood still, looked at me deeply, your eyes twinkling and you gave me a big, big hug and I sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. You came home, like you never left.
You never left. Ever in our hearts. We love you.