Good Friday, April 18, 2014
It’s a(nother) dreary morning and because there is no place I need to be, there is no rush to climb out of bed. The only good I can find about this morning is that I have chosen to spend it with you. I lay here plumped up against pillows listening to Finn who has just jumped onto the bed for his regular morning visit and after he has unsuccessfully tried many of his nuances to get us up and downstairs he has given up and instead now lays beside me, stretched out, and snoring. Dad is on his side of our bed, reading quietly, seemingly also reluctant to get out of bed this morning. Writing to you seems just the right thing to do.
I remember how when you were little you’d sneak into our bed in the early mornings, climb in between Dad and I and wiggle your little body under the covers. I remember how you’d try to be quiet (?), how you’d try to put your little arms around my neck, but because they weren’t long enough they’d dangle uncomfortably in my eyes. I remember how I could feel your breath on my shoulder or my face and how sometimes you’d be so close I could feel your eyelashes brush ever so lightly against my skin. As you grew and as your brothers can attest to, the rule about crawling into bed with Dad and I changed to being able to build a nest beside our bed with no questions asked. We believed that no matter how big you were, if that’s where you needed to be then that’s where you needed to be. I remember so fondly the many early mornings and the many middle of the nights after a bad dream too, I’d hear you coming down the hall… the sound of you carrying and dragging all of your things from your room to our room, to my side of the bed where I’d wake, and in the darkness or early morning light I’d help you make your nest on the floor beside our bed. All the pillows you could find to lie on were carefully placed, then came your fluffy duvet pulled right off your bed, your little blanket (the one so shredded and torn that still gave you comfort into adolescence and that will always have a place in your memory box), sometimes a stuffy or two or ten and voila, the Willy nest was complete. Will, I swear there were times when your nest was more comfortable than our bed. I know this because I also remember as clear as if it were yesterday the many times when I’d snuggle with you in your nest on the floor for a few minutes before I’d crawl back into my bed.
I love these memories more than anything I own. But now as tears run down my cheeks I wish there were more. I wish I had memories of you into the next phase of your young life; a life that should have been but couldn’t be. Memories of you as a teenager I will never have. As a young adult and an adult there will be none. The many memories I do have are precious beyond anything I have because they are all I have. I know this to be true of all parents who have lost a child.
As I look out of my bedroom window having earlier watched the morning mist turn to rain and now the white fluffy stuff, I know it is you, Will, yet again letting us know you are here. It really is quite enough now, Willy. Please, please stop with the snow! A ray of sunshine, even a raindrop would be most welcome right about now. You know what they say, “it takes both the rain and the sun to make a rainbow” and though I look for you in all forms, a rainbow would be a most welcome Willy sighting right about now!
Love you, little blue. More than anything. Even a bus.