May will always be a hard month for me. Mothers Day has that hard spot of missing my dead son. Looking at the spring weed flowers in the yard and remembering bouquets of them given to me on mom’s days past.
Then his birthday comes along a week or so later. This year I have another week to go.
It is not the same kind of hard that July is. July is the month he died.
Yes it has been years. He would have been 37 years old. But he stopped at 25.
Almost 12 years since his death. I’ve come a long way since the day he died. The first five were the hardest. The next five I created a new normal. Now I just stagnate in a limbo of emptiness on the day he was born.
What do you do on your child’s birthday when he is not there to celebrate it any longer? His sister calls and we talk about him for a few minutes.
I go to the cemetery to visit. Put out new flowers. And people act funny around me, if they don‘t avoid me altogether. Will I mention it? Will I expect them to remember? Will they be caught not remembering why I am so disengaged on that day?
No. This is my cross to bare. Others have moved on. Some others have died themselves. I’m the lone watcher on his birthday.
I remember having him. Natural child birth. He was all wrinkles and red. Beautiful and a part of me.
I remember birthday parties, presents, balloons. Candles on cakes, smiles and giggles. Chocolate on faces. Melting ice cream.
There is no party to look forward to. No presents or balloons. I’ll sit all alone. Waiting for the day to end for another year.
But waiting for the day to come is almost just as hard.