Tuesday, May 19, 2009

when I see him...

I see him. He's slowly running towards me from the play set. Soft brown hair shining in the sun. Wobbly little legs threatening to fall out from under him with every unsure step he takes. A baseball shirt on. A smile that could light up my darkest day. Bright green eyes. A soft giggle that melts my heart erupts from his beautiful mouth. And then there's a smile that is meant only for me. I reach to pull him up into my arms...and then he's gone.

I open my eyes. I'm devoured by darkness. It takes two seconds and then I remember - that boy was not my boy...that smile was not meant for me. I cant breath. I choke for air...pulling on everything near to me as the hysterics set in. My breathing becomes less erratic. I move around in the darkness looking for what I cling to when this happens. A stuffed tiger wrapped in baby blankets that I wish smelled more like him. This gives me comfort, if only for a while......I cry myself back to sleep.

This, or something to that effect, haunts my nights religiously. And during my waking hours, every time I close my eyes I see it again. Nine times out of ten it takes my breath away and I have to stop and remember exactly how it is one breathes. I have to stop and make myself move, go on with what I was doing...keep working, keep moving, keep living. I shouldn't be living though. Not this way. No mother should live when her child does not.

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