My beautiful son has gone. Where to, I don't know. I ask myself, “Is he just a memory now?' A picture on the wall? But memories are such a powerful thing; we learn from them, they give us courage, if we allow them to. We are in fact living memories of our experiences, of our ancestors. Their DNA works its pernicious memory into our thoughts and actions, whether we wish it or not. I've been changed by my son, not by his disappearance but by his presence.
Then I sit, alone, suddenly aware of the world around me, with all of its noise and color, or lack thereof. The noise of machines that accompanied our life together twenty four hours a day, is replaced with motionless life, staccato images strung together. “What is your life now?”, I wonder. Where is the meaning now? The white noise of ordinary life is truly deafening. I can't seem to recall the rasping of his breath which, when it stopped, saw me spring into action to bring him back, carry him along for the ride, a little longer. I see the jerking of his body as a seizure took over. Hundreds of thousands of times witnessed, a frail body, a mind which could not resist. I do remember the curve of his lips, the widening of his mouth: a smile that sent a seemingly infinite stream of pure energy into my mind and heart, reigniting that sense of purpose. While we are here, love will manifest itself, like a soft whisper only you can hear. The only thing, that we can truly know. But so subtle, so gentle. Seemingly the most fragile of all forces in existence. Where true hardship, suffering, outside events, turmoil and destruction, even of the slightest kind, instantly annihilates and we are left to think that it was deception on our own part to ever consider it was a force to begin with. “Reality sinks in”, is the expression. Now you move on with your life. This hollow sounding statement, like the polarity of an electron though, can go both ways. Despair at loss is seen like an empty bowl. But do they realize that they are holding a bowl in their hands? For me, my son and the experiences we had are not the contents, which can be poured out, but rather the bowl itself. I can feel this imaginary bowl and am discovering how to strike it, make it ring out in a resonance that reminds me, I am whole. That's what love does.