One of the women in my group has a theory–she believes that as we make connections and talk about our children, that they meet each other in Heaven and become friends.
I don’t know where you are right now. I write to you, and I write for me.
I write because I miss you. I write because I’m still having trouble accepting that this is my life now. I write because there are times in my days when I can’t do anything but write. On these days, I feel like I’m still pregnant, and this is me giving birth to your memory.
I think it would be so much easier if I believed as other people believed. It would be so much easier if I could close my eyes and know with certainty that you were listening when I said your name. It would be so nice. But it’s not real.
Your death has challenged so many of my beliefs. It was easy to know that there is no Truth when it was just me. It was easy to accept I was going to die and whatever happened would just happen that day. I never feared heaven or hell. I never cared if they were real. I don’t care what happens to me, but to think that you are gone so soon is so painful to me. And in this moment, it would be so much easier if I believed as other people believe. Easier, but not real.
I don’t know what exists in that great cosmic space. I don’t know what happens when our hearts cease to beat. I don’t know if you can hear me when I write or say your name, if you’ll ever hear any of my apologies. (I’m so sorry I didn’t save you.) I only know that I love you. And whatever happens, wherever you live now, that is the most important thing.
I love you. And if you’re playing somewhere with Jude and Shalomar and Daniel and too many other children to name, then please tell them that I love them too. You are all so very precious to me.