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.
I love your post. I am glad you have your memories. What a beautiful young child Charles was.
Thank you Brooke. He was very special, so vulnerable, too. The sensitive ones usually are.
Beautifully described. Like a dream you wake up from and desperately fight to remember because he was there, but the details fade just out of reach. Leaving you with that sense of them which we will cherish because its all we have left.
Perfectly said Teri!