What I Wish I Could Say to Your Face

I’m a weird gal, which isn’t news to those of you in my personal space.  I’ve got this problem of spinning things like a hamster wheel in my mind and then literally palms sweating, shaky fingers typing where I have to get it out.  And I say typing because I can’t ever bring myself to say it aloud (also which those of you in my personal space know is completely out of character).  I’ve been avoiding sitting down to type this post–even so far as to clean out the tray and drawer that hold my flat wear (which, have y’all done that lately?  I found enough crumbs to keep the squirrel population in my back yard alive for a few months)–but alas, I sit and squirm.  And I bang on these keys in my paltry endeavor to say something.

Tomorrow marks seven years since my aunt lost her only son.  Seven years.  And still, in my lion from the Wizard of Oz cowardess, I find things that I can’t say out loud to her.  Man I loved her son, my cousin.  He got me on levels other’s couldn’t.  Though older than me, he was my friend.  And he’d claim that out loud, too.  He was fun and funny; super sharp-witted and smart and talented and smart-assy in the most perfect way (though probably not in his teenage year to his parents’ minds…).  He was Jay.  And I loved him.  I still do.  Always will.

As a mother of my own now, I often think about this tragedy of life that so many (too many and one is too many) I know have experienced.  Because it is always a tragedy, no matter the age or the way, to lose a child.  Always a tragedy.  Because life ISN’T SUPPOSED TO BE THAT WAY.  It should never, ever happen.  Ever.  Parents should never outlive their kids in a perfect world.  It doesn’t make sense.  It’s not natural order.  And I hate it so bad, so bad, and there are so many things I want to say to these parents that I personally know but just can’t (or is it won’t?!?) do face to face.  It’s almost as if the pain of a grieving parent is palpable to others; an aura surrounding them, an almost physical wall constructed around the heart of these parents the instant their child left the earth, that feels sort of impenetrable to those of us walking in this world around them.  Or at least for this girl.

Just this past week, I crossed paths with a man that’s known me all my life and his family loves my family and vice versa.  I hadn’t laid eyes on him since the passing of his son a mere month and a few days ago, and seeing him sort of took my breath away.  He looked like a deflated balloon.  A once happy, happy thing that is a hallmark of celebration now laying without air, crumpled up, like a party is over.  The happy is gone.  Shriveled.  Sad. As I was holding my sick son in my arms, my heart was somewhat shielded from the agony of his heart where his son is now held.  This is where I find a loss of words–anything I think I could possibly say seems trite in my mind.  And I’m sorry that I didn’t say out loud to him something along the lines of you know I loved your son.  He was always so kind to me, albeit older, and always stuck up for me in a crowd.  He always had a smile and a playful laugh that the world had the pleasure of enjoying.  He will be missed on earth.  And I’ll continue to miss him and I know you and your family will miss him even more– And that’s feeble, those words seem so cheap, and I didn’t say anything of the sort, just robotic pleasantries and forced lip curls –but I so hope he felt that I cared when I patted his knee, when my eyes locked his–my heart not holding the key to unlock his–but I do care.  I don’t pretend to understand, but I care.  I care.

This all sounds so very very selfish and I understand it to be so.  It’s the grieved ones’ loss, their anguish, their story and for me to be so concerned with what I say or how I say it to these individuals is, in short, ridiculous.  But I long for them to know that I realize the error of my way–that of not saying anything and often times saying the wrong thing– and I’m sure others that encounter parents that have lost children often feel the same.  Please tell me, if I say your beautiful child’s name out loud to you, am I going to make you cry? Again? And I don’t want to make you cry and not just selfishly because crying can be uncomfortable but because I really wish I could help you forget the pain away.  And there’s nothing I can do in that realm nor do I honestly believe I could nor do I desire to make light of a pain that is completely and utterly unimaginable to those of us that haven’t been there.  But I want them to know that I care.  That my heart hurts in cadence with theirs, for theirs.  That their child is not forgotten.  That I do say their child’s name, not always audibly, but in my mind and in my heart when I think of him or her.

Sitting with my own son at lunch today, my mind went to those who have an empty chair at their tables, an emptier spot in their heart.  I thanked God for my children and then felt so selfish, so … so… sad and guilty even.  My mind went to all of the precious souls I’ve had the privilege of knowing that have left this earth too soon, too soon.  And God, in His always good, always gentle, always loving way whispered that He’s got each one of them and will keep them in His loving-kindness until the day we get to heaven too.  And that one day will be for eternity where there will never be grief, never be pain, never be a gone too soon, never be an “I’m so sorry” again.  Ever. Not even a tear of sadness.  Not one.

So now you know the things I can’t say out loud.  This weak form of articulation here isn’t at attempt to make me feel better about not saying them audibly, rather a love letter to those of you I know that miss a child here on earth.  I think about you.  I think about them.  I know their names.  I know from a motherly point of view how you loved them.  I don’t always bring it up when I see you because I don’t know how, but I pray my heart somehow signals to yours that I haven’t forgotten.  I don’t pretend to know your pain or how deep your grief, but I love you.

I wish I could say these things to your face.

Author: dailyparrscription

Fun gal with a lot to say View all posts by dailyparrscription