It’s been awhile.
I wear grief like an old sweater. It’s a familiar friend, one who knows and understands the searing pain in my heart and soul. A friend with a lingering touch and smell, one that reappears from time to time to say hello and hug.
Some days, the grief is easier to manage. It doesn’t eat at you as much, it doesn’t swallow you whole and spits you out grasping for air. But some days, it slaps you with the cold harsh reality that the one thing most precious to you is gone. And all the brief memories and fleeting touches you were given, are but sad consolations.
Grief can make your stomach twist and turn. It makes you see the world through a pale haze. Disbelief. Anger. Doubt. Hurt. Pain. Resentment. The worse is when you have to remind yourself that you are better than this, that you are above the negative sentiment of it all. That you cannot allow yourself to succumb to darkness.
Because then, you dishonour the memory of your son.
I won’t lie, it can be so unbelievably hard to just try and think positive. The thought of putting on a smile, fake, is tiresome. Small talk is torturous. Fumbling and struggling through life? Don’t even go there. My hands are trembling even as I’m writing this. Overcome by a sudden wave of sadness and questioning the futility of it all.
He would have been 6 months. Would have started crawling, make bubbly gurgly sounds, trying to put an endless array of things in his mouth. He would have been smiling endlessly just as he would be frowning for no reason. He would be pooping explosively, drooling everywhere; just being generally adorable.
But he is not. And I will only have these fantasies. And I am lying to myself, that it doesn’t pains me, each and everyday, that he is gone.
I ask Allah for strength, to keep me strong, to hold me firm. I pray to Allah with the knowledge that my little boy is in a place, free from tubes and wires and most importantly, pain. I pray to Allah with the knowledge that I will see my son again, even if it takes a lifetime, and he will be waiting for me, with the same amount of eagerness as I have.
Waiting all my life to see him again.