Sunshine and pain

Life is so pain filled now. Good moments hurt… they just hurt different. Isaiah has started to get the hang of riding his bike without training wheels and today for the first time we went on a walk, ‘all’ of us. Isaiah rode so well, and Will and I grinned at each other and shouted encouragement to our budding dare devil. We were the picture of an ideal American family… the daddy pushing the little boy a few steps then launching him to peddle peddle peddle off on his own, mom cheering and looking on.

But there was a stroller missing. Even in the middle of the genuine smiles I was so painfully aware that everything was horribly incomplete. My son was missing… my son is missing.

People going about their lives stopped to watch us walk by, grinning. The picture was so beautiful… they couldn’t see the gaping holes or the ever-present black. It seemed so ironic to me.

I hesitated to walk in the house when we got back. As incomplete as the moment had been, at least it held shades of something beautiful… hints of the woman I thought I would always be, mommy. As always, respite ends and the crushing pain is that much more severe for the absence of the dulling effects of a brief happy moment.

What did it feel like, to feel complete, to be whole, to be happy?

I don’t remember.