I went to the cemetery today. I don't go very often. It's too hard sometimes.
I talk to Caleb at the cemetery. I know he's not there and he can't here me, but I talk to him anyway. I think I do it more for me than for him. Actually, I know I do.
What prompted me to go is his little brother. Our youngest, Jacob, has been talking about Caleb more than ever lately. We were pulling into the Walmart parking lot yesterday and heard Jacob crying in the backseat. I asked him what was wrong and he just said, "Caleb" and burst into tears. He acted similarly the rest of the day and even a little today (I'm kind of concerned about school for him tomorrow. They've been off the last two days). Jacob was only four when his brother died. Though it's been just over a year and he's only five now, I still wonder if the reality of what has happened is starting to sink in. I just tell him that he can think about and cry about Caleb as much as he wants. And if he wants to think about him and not cry, that's OK, too.
Loss is such a weird process. Abnormal or unexpected loss more so. I mean, we all have loss. Everyone can relate to losing a grandparent and, sadly and eventually, a parent. My heart breaks for those who lose a spouse. This loss of a child is so...
There are no words. Or manuals. Just layers. And when you think you have worked through your layers, more peel back and are somehow deeper. I told my friend, Sue, that after a year, the highs get a little higher so it seems that when you do fall, you fall further.
So I stand in a cemetery and think about and talk to and miss my ten-year-old. I cry. I push back how much I miss him and think about all that he is experiencing with his Father. That helps. I kiss his grave marker before I leave every time.
And then I go home to three beautiful boys and an incredible husband. I thank God for every day we have and everything with which we have been blessed.
And continue this journey...
