Today as I let 2017 out the back door and welcome 2018 in the front door I want to thank you. I thank you for following me around this past year and for sitting on my left shoulder where the boy angels sit, constantly whispering in my ear, “Mom, I love you and you can do this.” You have never waned in your ability to assure me that indeed you are near and that the veil to the other side is thin. Through closed eyes and an open heart I have seen your boyish smile and heard your mischievous giggle when I have called your name. You have taken me by the hand and pulled me through my hardest days of this year and sat with me and offered me comfort when, no matter what, I just had to cry. I have come to know that there will always be moments when it is unbearable to live my days with you on the other side. But I have also learned that you’re right, somehow I can do this.
Will
Your light is bright, Will, and I trust with my whole heart that you will continue to guide Dad and me and your brothers as we live here on this side. Tonight I will search for your star — the middle one on Orion’s Belt in the Orion constellation that shines the brightest in these winter months — and I will pause and say thank you and tell you that I love you more. I know you’ll be with me tonight as I say goodbye to 2017 and hello to 2018. And I know you’ll be with me tomorrow and the next day and the next and the next… on my left shoulder and in my heart where you’ll always be. When I lay my head on my pillow at the end of this night I will dream of the day when we meet again face to face and how beautiful that embrace will be. The very best part about that day will be that instead of being on my left shoulder you’ll be in my arms.
Love you, sweet boy. Bigger than a bus and all the way to your star on Orion’s Belt and back.
Momxo
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Our Little Blue… so many memories…
Good Friday, April 18, 2014
Dear Will,
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.
Momxo
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2016. The first thing that comes to my mind is the number five. The passing of time seems always to be where my mind, without even thinking, drifts first. For fifteen days now we’re into a new year and I shake my head in disbelief knowing that it will be 5 years this May. I wonder over and over, also in disbelief, how it could even be possible that yesterday and forever can seem the same? Time is funny that way.
I read a post on Facebook this morning that spoke to me in a profound way. Instantly, I thought about the words I wrote in my tribute to you – the words that Mary read on my behalf at your Celebration of Life six days after our world changed forever. I wanted to reprint them here in your letter so you are reminded of what I miss the most about you, Will.
Here goes…
“Last Sunday I experienced every mother’s “unimaginable”. I lost my WillBilly. On that evening, a part of me was lost with Will as well; Partly, because I have this overwhelming need to be with him and also because at twelve years of age, quite frankly, he still needs his mom. Surrounding his passing are emotions beyond words.
I recently read (not once, but three times) Katrina Kenison’s book, “The Gift of an Ordinary Day” and many of the words I am sharing with you today were born from hers and some word for word as it seems Moms everywhere convey the same kind of love.
Katrina writes and it couldn’t be more true for me that “One of the hardest lessons I am learning is that the answers to the really big questions, the answers I most hunger for, don’t ever come to us from the outside; rather, they come from a quiet place within. A place we can reach only when we find within ourselves the courage to pause, to abide for a while in that place of not knowing, to be at peace even with our uncertainties, and then to listen and attend with the ear of our own hearts.”
I often find myself thinking back to when Will was really small. Days that began with cinnamon toast cut into finger size pieces and might end with made-up stories or shadow pictures on a bedroom wall. In between there were walks to the river, picnic lunches at the park, popsicles, hot wheels and miles and miles of orange track that would meander around our living room furniture. And then there was lego. Lots. And. Lots. Of. Lego. Crayola markers, playdough, puzzles, a plastic wading pool and a lawn sprinkler that could enchant a neighbourhood of kids for hours, a shallow red dish full of dish soap and glycerin, and magic wands that once waved hundreds of wobbly, irridescent bubbles into the air.
As he grew, so did his world. Sports became a part of Will and as long as he had friends (and he had many) to do them with he was having the time of his life. A trampoline, a bag of candy, a pair of park skis and powder skis, fancy goggles, snow, sleepovers, bacon, his iPod, bouncy balls, Kathleen, Kale, hoodies, hats, a flannel shirt, his constant singing, his laugh and most of all a family who loved him beyond words were all that mattered. Simple, ordinary pleasures.
It’s still hard for me to believe that all of this has vanished, that those times are truly gone for good. Thankfully, what I have now are countless, beautiful memories that scroll endlessly in my mind. Memories of his constant show of affection, as well as the countless peanut butter and banana sandwiches, bedtime stories, earaches and scraped knees, baking soda volcanoes, snowball fights, trips into Bragg Creek for icecream and how I hauled his baritone sax to and from school every week because it was too big to carry on the bus. How I harped at him to finish his homework and how I had to remind him to pick up his wet towel off the floor every morning. Yet I am grateful to have had all of those moments, for they are the ones that have turned out, in the end, to be the most precious recollections of all, even though they went unrecorded, unwritten, unremarked on at the time.
Our photo albums and computers are full of pictures of birthday cakes and holiday celebrations, vacation trips and family adventures. But the memories I find myself holding onto the tightest, the ones that I will cherish for the rest of my life are the ones that you couldn’t capture in a photograph. His giggle, his “I love you, moms”, his little boy arms around my neck and his final words every night, “Mom, can you tuck me in?” followed by, “I love you like a bus.” Quite simply, a family’s life as it is from one hour, or day, or season, to the next. The most wonderful gift we had and the gift I will cherish above all else, was the gift of all those perfectly ordinary days.
I will always carry Will with me. Everywhere I go. Forever.”
(from my Tribute to Will, May 28, 2011)
What I want you to always know, Willy, is that I couldn’t miss you more than I did back then or more than I do now. All of those perfectly ordinary moments have become what I cherish most in life. They are the movie that plays over and over and over in my heart.
And just like we ended each of our days all those days ago,
… I love you like a bus, Willy. A big, ole ordinary bus with perfectly ordinary wheels.
Momxo
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My Pride. My Joy. My Boys.
Friday, March 21, 2014
Dear WillBilly,
On the eve of another “22nd day” of another month, of course you continue to be in my thoughts and like everyday I wish more than anything that you were here. Tomorrow afternoon is an important day for your big brother, as he will receive his iron ring in a ceremony where engineering students in their final year of university take part in what is known as The Ritual of the Calling of an Engineer. It’s been almost five years since Justin began his university studies towards his dream of obtaining a degree in mechanical engineering and almost three of them have been without you here. You’d have been blown away, Will, by looking at the mind-boggling formulas and complexity of the assignments that he completed on a regular basis. I couldn’t make sense of any of them and wasn’t ever sure if I was even looking at them right side up. Justin would have been the best math tutor you could ever have and I wish I could have been witness to the two of you sitting at the kitchen table while he was helping you work through a math problem. As his little brother, you’d have enjoyed it and Justin would have too.
I imagined that this afternoon after school you and I would have driven to the city on a mission to find something nice for you to wear tomorrow. I wonder how tall you would be now and what size pants and shirt we’d have to buy? And would you still be trying to convince me that your Vans would be ok with your pants and that no one would be looking at your shoes anyway? I noticed myself pause and reflect as I typed that sentence, my head nodding up and down like you really did have a point. Oh, what I’d have given to be in the stores with you this afternoon doing what I wish we’d have had a chance to do.
Come tomorrow morning I already know that my heart will be heavier than usual; that it’ll ache a little more because you won’t physically be with us on this special day. Of course you’ll be with us in spirit; that I know with all my heart. You’ll be sitting proudly on my left shoulder where all the boy angels sit and you’ll be inside my heart where you always are. I already know that I will reach up and touch my left shoulder and that one or both of my hands will cup the heart necklace that is you. I don’t even know how many times I find myself holding that heart pendant in my hands. It happens frequently everyday. As Dad and I and Ben proudly watch Justin tomorrow afternoon we know you’ll be there too… in the middle, of course, where you loved to be.
Oh Willy. I will never understand why this tragedy happened to us. I will forever feel so robbed of watching you live your dreams and of enjoying the life you so deserved here with us. You, our youngest son and little brother to Justin and Ben will always be a part of our lives. That will never ever change, but oh what I would do to be able to see you, to touch you, to hug you.
I love you, little blue. Bigger than a bus. And more than the sky. I’ll be waiting and watching for the little wink I know you’ll send our way tomorrow while we watch Justin realize his dream of becoming an engineer and receive his much deserved iron ring.
Momxo
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May 18, 2015
Dear Will,
While walking Finn down by the river this afternoon I noticed the little, blue butterflies were visiting again. I’ve missed seeing these little beauties, as these were the first I’ve seen since last summer. First there was one, then two… then three, all fluttering about in the sunshine, stopping here and there, up and down and all around — going nowhere it seemed, or certainly not in a hurry if they were. I smiled wondering if they were you… and in the same breath, of course, they were you. I slowed my pace and began to talk to them, extending my hand and then stopping to just take it all in. I asked them, “is that you, Willy? Is it you? Is it?” They continued to flutter about always coming back to where I could almost reach out and touch them. They stayed close, stopping and starting in unison as if I was leading some sort of dance.
For quite some time I was oblivious to anything else. Their delicate, little, blue wings so perfect and the way they’d stop and rest on a dandelion or a leaf or a blade of grass while their little wings moved as if that is how they breathed. Little ins and little outs. And then off they’d go, their wings moving so effortlessly and so quietly amongst us.
I needed to see those little, blue butterflies today, Will. A sign from you that you are here, that you see us and hear us and love us still. These past few days have weighed heavily on my heart and to see the weightlessness of love in the wings of a little blue butterfly instantly picked me up. I hadn’t realized until that moment just how fragile I was feeling today. For a few days, I didn’t want to open my eyes and instead closed them tight for fear that the river of tears inside of me would spill. I’d been walking with my head down instead of up, not seeing the beauty in little things…until I saw the little, blue butterflies this afternoon.
For the rest of my walk I longed to touch you, to see your face, to hear your voice and in the quiet of my afternoon walk I did try, but the only sight and sound was in my memory. I sighed. But I will never give up on my belief that you are here. Just a blink away. Somewhere over the rainbow. On the other side of the veil. I’ll be out again tomorrow Will, on the same river path as today. And I’ll look for you again… because those little, blue butterflies get me every time.
Love you, little blue. Like a bus full of those little flutterbies.
Momxo
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Willy at Elbow Falls… on the Elbow River
Friday, June 28, 2013 (768 days)
Dear Will,
So much has happened since I last wrote to you, but that didn’t mean that you were not in my thoughts. On the contrary actually, for through the tragedy of the flood that ravaged much of Bragg Creek and the rest of Southern Alberta, we miraculously dodged it. For those days when we weren’t sure if the berm would hold and save our homes, it was you that consumed me, you that gave me hope, and most of all, you that sealed my belief that you really are looking out for us, and that it was you that kept our home and us safe.
When we were served with the mandatory evacuation order last Thursday evening, the first thing I packed was you (your ashes), your favourite plaid shirt, and my macbook that holds all of our treausured photos. I couldn’t imagine leaving you behind with all the uncertainty that lie ahead. As I watched others in our community anxiously trying to move things up from their basements to higher ground and listened to their stories and watched their stress levels climb, it was clear to me that what I left behind was just “stuff” and that I didn’t have the emotional energy to put into things that were replaceable. Losing you has given me a different perception on life events and what is truly important. It is the people that I love, that I cherish beyond anything else that matter the most. What was most important was that I had you and that Dad and I and Ben were on our way to the Schneider’s home in Elbow Valley where the threat of the river was nil. I knew Justin was safe at his home in Calgary and what I drove away from last Thursday evening was just stuff.
I have said it before – that what I know for sure is that nothing in my life going forward will ever be as difficult as losing you. Of course, I felt a huge relief when we were given the go ahead to return to Redwood on Sunday and to see that things here were good. We were lucky, Will; our home was dry and all of the reminders of you were still here; dry and intact. Some of our friends and neighbors were not so lucky; wet basements and lots of work to remove wet carpets and drywall and “stuff”, negotiations with insurance companies and the inconvenience of cleaning and rebuilding and the stress that goes with that, but no loss of a loved one. We all have much to be grateful for in the aftermath of what happened in our part of the world last week. Some lost their homes, their businesses, their financial security now in jeopardy, but all those that we know have each other and that is most important. We are ever grateful, Will; to a God that heard our prayers, to ALL that worked tirelessly to repair and reinforce our berm when the river was relentless, to the miracle that kept our community safe and to YOU for keeping it all in perspective and keeping me sane.
I love you more and more each day, little one. So very much and like a bus. That’ll never change and no one or no thing or no river can ever take that away.
Momxo
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0 Comments
Beautiful Joni. My heart is with you every step of this journey. I love what you have given back to this world through your challenges, your heart is bigger than any other I know. XO
Mary, you always know how to make me feel like I’m doing the right thing. Knowing that you support me and walk with me means so much. I just couldn’t let 2017 leave without saying thank you to my sweet boy. He is my “God” and does guide my every decision. But there is always a “but”, an “if only” and that makes me cry. I do know, however, that a big, broken heart is better than a wee, closed one. Love you, sweet friend.
Beautiful Joni. My heart is with you every step of this journey. I love what you have given back to this world through your challenges, your heart is bigger than any other I know. XO
Mary, you always know how to make me fee
Mary, you always know how to make me feel like I’m doing the right thing. Knowing that you support me and walk with me means so much. I just couldn’t let 2017 leave without saying thank you to my sweet boy. He is my “God” and does guide my every decision. But there is always a “but”, an “if only” and that makes me cry. I do know, however, that a big, broken heart is better than a wee, closed one. Love you, sweet friend.