A song, or a familiar visual triggers a memory of Charles. Right then, there is a place in my mind I go to sink into it all by myself. No sounds or other thoughts penetrate. And I don’t want interruptions or company because this is my time with my child that is no longer here on earth.
Sometimes there is only a partial memory. The rest of it stays stubbornly masked, just out of reach. That’s when I leave a message for my brain to retrieve it. That one must have been filed away in the stacks.
Why do I only get pieces of it when it’s the whole thing I want? Days, even months later, some of the missing pieces will randomly pop into my head and give me a more complete story.
There has been a lot of that in this third year since Charles’ suicide. Moments of melancholy that don’t get pushed away or denied, but embraced with love.