Nothing new here. Nothing earth shattering. No new revelations. Just that raw, ugly momma grief.
There’s no new way to frame it or say it.
Images of you flash through my brain like a slide show. Snippets of your life play like an old movie–scenes from when you were a baby, a toddler, a 10 year old, a teen, and since it’s your birthday month, scenes from all those parties and broken piñatas.
And finally, that image of you as “Saturday Charles.” You with that buffalo plaid shirt you loved. That giant grin and your boundless energy like you were going to bounce out of your skin and rule the world.
If you were here you’d tell me a joke that would make me laugh. Inspire me out of my funk. But you’re not so I just want to curl up under the covers with my naked grief and have you come alive in my dreams.