Loner

Bosty, 

I cannot describe how it feels to know you would now be 11 months old... I should be sad because you're getting so big, not because I never get to see you get big. It's just so unfair. I don't know where exactly I thought I would be at this point, but not here. Probably because at first I just thought that you would come back and I wouldn't have to figure it out, but you're still not back...and I'm so far from figuring it out. 

I could say it a million times, in a million ways, every single day for the rest of my life but it wouldn't matter... No one will ever fully understand how much my heart aches for you. Every loss is different. You were mine and there was never and never will be another you. People like you only happen one time, Bosty. Why you couldn't have graced this earth for at least 68 years instead of only 68 days is something I'll never find peace with...

I am stuck in a world infested with a society that doesn't recognize grieving in it's many forms, and though people typically mean well, when it comes down to it they are not accepting of my struggles. Far and few between even ask how I am doing these days, and when they do they're gone before I can even answer. I've come to find it's because they really just don't want to actually know. The answers are too painful to understand. They want to do what's socially acceptable and morally correct by asking, but they don't want to sit here and witness my pain first hand. No one wants to see the anger, sadness, tragedy, or the shockingly ugly depths I travel through each day. If they ask, it's because they feel obligated, but their responses can be summed up as "I feel sorry for you, but you're on your own."

Please send me a sign, fatboy. I would give anything to go back to the picture below... You and your brother completed me, now half of that is gone forever. I have days that I can't open my mouth without choking on tears and feeling like someone kicked me in the stomach... Today is one if those days. I pray that "woman" knows it's so very far from over. 

"There is, I am convinced, no picture that conveys in all it's dreadfulness, a vision of sorrow, remediless, supreme. If I could paint such a picture, the canvas would show only a woman looking down at her empty arms."