If you were here I wonder if I would still be measuring time this way. Or would you simply be one year old and I'd stop counting the months because I wouldn't have to? But no. You're more than one year. You're one year and two months. 14 months. And for some reason, because you're gone, that distinction seems important to make. It seems necessary to count every single moment you've been gone.
I went to the cemetery on Saturday. But I didn't make it there today. I can't remember a milestone yet when I've been in the area and haven't gone to see you. The reality of that stings. That today, life just got in the way of me making it to you. Most days I'm okay with it. With life going on. I've accepted it. That's reality. But on days like today -- your day, the 7th of the month -- reality sucks. I've wanted to hide out with you today. The way I used to be able to sometimes. Just curl up and be sad you're gone. But I couldn't. And now that evening has come, your brother is crying inconsolably with your dad in the other room, it's dark, and the day's exhaustion has crept in, I miss you fiercely. And I feel like I nearly missed your milestone today.
But I'm here now. With a few stolen moments to share with you.
To tell you I love you.
To tell you I miss you.
To remind you how special you still are to me. Even though life has gone on.
Love you forever, baby boy.