Dichotomy

This was something I penned the morning of the anniversary….a still morning 2 years from the day.

Dichotomy

Dichotomy of what I am, and what I what I want to be.

Dichotomy of what is, and what was meant for thee.

 

Happiness of knowing you were my three,

It was all I could do to wait and see.

 

The worry for your health as you grew

And your Mother did all that she could humanly do.

 

Your growth, your development was an eternity;

But each day during that time felt like the first day.

 

I worried for you four,

Not knowing what God had in store.

 

I was so confused as to my place,

But, I knew when I saw your Mother's face.

 

I needed to be who I am, it was that simple,

Yet, it was not….

 

We were resolute,

We would fight for each of you.

 

Your sister's heart was what grabbed our attention,

But, it brought up the question.

 

That so many did not fully appreciate

What would that do to each separate?

 

That if it worked for sister to resolve

How would that effect each, and all?

 

From the moments your sisters tasted air

I knew holding you, my heart would have this permanent tear.

 

It is that way each time I see their face

Time has failed to erase

 

My longing to hold you, and call you MY son.

And, this journey is far from done….

Shuffle

Everything is incomplete…

Everything is shuffled.

Shuffle to this, shuffle to that….

No waiting, no digesting…..

I am forced to move on, to move from point A to point B. I cannot absorb, and I cannot reflect on what it is….I cannot see things from what they are, and what they were.

I cannot enjoy the moments that I have.

I long for the moments I had where I felt him kick inside of his Mother. I long for those moments of peace, when everything was the way I wanted it to be.

Rush.

Show.

Move on.

Get over it.

The only times I left that are not shuffled are ones in which are now filled with a void….at best. Those not filled with a void are those that filled with unbearable pain.

There are no moments of peace, where the only violence is a soft kick.

The only semblance of peace was January 18, 2010 where Mother and I just sat…sat in disbelief, sat to ponder. It took us nearly 2 years to reach that point in which we could both find peace in each other's arms.

2

Of all days, I came across this very post….

Here I am, I am on the eve….the eve of the day that is an indelible mark, the point of reference for most everyone but my wife and I. The day that those that do not live this day every day can point to, along with us….only to shove off, and move forward for the remaining 364 days.

I do not know where I am here at 2 years, but I know where he is….

In so many ways it does not feel like 2 years have passed, but in so many ways that day is seared, tattooed to my heart.

I am at work, and my colleagues go about daily business, shuffling clients to and fro whereas I reflect of exactly where I was, and what was going on with particular clients in the minutiae of what was that day when he passed. In so many ways that is what it is….what it is like….

To pause, to reflect…to silently scream each and every day at everyone at the pain that is tearing me apart….it is a constant struggle.

At 2, his sisters are 2….and rarely a moment goes by where I do not well up pondering how he would fit in, how he would interact with his sisters. I wonder if we were playing chase, would he be chasing them with me, or I would be chasing him? Would he cling to me, or would he be a Mamma's boy? Infinite moments pondering…

Life is moving on, but at the same time, it is stationary…

I know in these days, I grow more and more scared. I am scared that I somehow will forget him….that the sweet memory I have of him dissipates more and more….that the memories that warmed me up so are slowly slipping away.

That is what I fear the most, I hurt, and I fear…then I hurt because I fear. And, then the hurt from the fear turns to guilt…..

I am unable to describe, but at the same time I know precisely what I feel…..

And, I guess that is what the author herein was describing….I pulled his scrapbook from my desk today…he is always my sweet, fragile baby boy…and he will always be that precious and fragile being…..

Not a day goes by, rarely an hour or a moment does, that I do not miss my baby boy….

Quiet

I really did not know what I would expect this morning…

It is not that I really expect anything melodramatic such as finding him asleep in a crib, or a bed next to his sisters. I do not have the terror, or the flair for the dramatic of having him not be there, and suddenly realizing it.

Though, at the same time, it is surreal in the sense that I expect these moments, and the reality of what it is needs nothing more than what reality is to be the stark reality that burns…

He is not there.

He is not here.

We are alone.

My ritual, in awaking before the house stirs, being the one who is the first who rises to begin a new day finds an eerie sound that quietness makes when you listen…..but the cliché does not hold….there is no peace and quiet.

The morning is what it was two years ago.

It is quiet. The clouds hide the moon. All is seemingly well. But, all is quiet.

No wind. No movement. The clouds do not move, and the moon is hidden behind the unmoving fog of clouds. They envelope the light that would burst through….

It promises to be a day filled with grey.

The day is me, the night in between….the twilight….the in between….the promise of a new day is hidden. It cannot begin, but it will…and the clouds will do their best to hold back the promise of this new day. The gray will envelop the crisp, sharp contrast of the sun on what would be an otherwise clear, beautiful morning.

Nothing melodramatic. No stark reality realized….it is what it is, it is what it has been.

My soul is still gray. It is enveloped by a fog that clings and releases….a soul that wants to begin a new day.

It has been two years of gray….the day will begin, it has to….