This is Charles’ birthday month. My baby would have been 23 on the twenty sixth of this month. Then there’s mother’s day in May, the death anniversary June 5. This is my grieving season.
Already, I have the grief rash peaking from under my eyebrow. I’m short tempered and weepier. My heart aches and I’m staring off into space in a trance more often than usual.
Many of his friends have graduated from college, some of them are already applying to graduate school. I still have them stuck at 20 sometimes–shocked when I realize they had the audacity to grow up while he is gone. Seeing them do well actually gives me great joy, and makes me ache at the same time.
I want more stories, more notebooks, more pictures I’ve not seen before. More Charles. And I want to know he is remembered. That he meant something.
I want to curl up in a cave with his childhood blankie, smother myself in all his belongings. I want things I can’t have –like a hug or a lock of his hair. I long so much to hear that laugh, that rap voice, how he started talking about his birthday starting at Christmas.
All I have is my imagination and the fear that memory will fade or I won’t remember his scent.