This is just my life

I’ve had to acknowledge in the past weeks that I’m “use to” this. I don’t wake in the middle of the night expecting to hear Damon cry. I don’t almost walk into his room in the morning to pick out his clothes. I don’t expect to get to pick him up any minute any more.

I ache no less. This may even hurt more. I expect the shooting, stabbing or gnawing pain. It doesn’t surprise me anymore. This is my reality. I feel as if I’ve been shot through with a harpoon. The spear dangles from the gaping wound in my chest. It’s weight ever painful and ever present. I’ve learned to carry the weight but the agony is no less.

I see the last stuffed animal he ever got. He picked it out himself. Every time I see it I see him holding it tucked under his little baby arm, smiling. I remember lunch that day with my grandparents, my Papa insisting Damon have the little stuffed lemur simply because his grandson wanted it. Damon threw crayons and forks and food through the whole meal. He always did.

I see the fingerprints on the sliding glass door and I remember him standing there watching his big brother play. I remember them matching their hands to each other across the glass. I would give anything for him to be there, dirty slimy baby hand on that glass staring back at me.

I walk past his room and see him asleep in his crib with his hands tucked under his little body, bottom in the air. I see his daddy zipping up his footie pajama’s over his baby belly and calling him ‘fat Elvis.’ I feel him heavy in my arms, drinking milk from his sippy cup while I sing “Holy Lord” and rock him before bed. I hear Will quietly sing a song that was only for his son.

I watch him play in the bathtub and remember cleaning poop out of the tub four times a week. I empty the dishwasher uninterrupted and feel utterly lost. I pull clothes out of the drier and remember that it was one of his favorite places to play. I see his giggling smiling face but I can’t touch him. I can’t hold him. He is gone forever.

There is no consolation. There is no comfort.

And I’m used to this. This is just my life. I am the mother of a dead child.

I told Will that I think maybe this is hell. I hear about people dyeing and I’m jealous. I am often reminded by the well intentioned that I still have Isaiah. I assure you I have never forgotten him. I also never forget Damon, ever.

This is just my life.