Oh, Benjamin. These past weeks we've somehow been surrounded by "you" so much, even in your death, that the fog of shock has been lingering. And sometimes now, as I wander around this landscape of grief and occasionally step a bit further from the shock, I find denial. Fresh panic mixed with tears of knowing, and I just deny it all. Every last detail.
This can't have happened. This can't be forever. This can't be what I have to carry the rest of my life. Carry the lack of you, instead of you. The fragile pieces of life gone too soon. The sorrow of your death. The realities of this life.
I think back on our time together and all the "what ifs" and the "should have beens," and try to rework the details. Details that can’t be changed, but I want you so bad... I'm partially believing the impossible somewhere in my mind. Hopeless hope. Just wildly loving you, Benjamin, trying to reach you. Recently I was reading how “'Irrevocable' is not something we accept easily in a society where we can change so much through technology–hasn’t there got to be a way to change this?”
The finality stings so deep. Waves of disbelief toss me.
I can see the little chambers of your heart beating perfectly on the ultrasound screen, again and again, always so strong, even as my body was failing you. Your hands both above your head, like always. Tucked upside down. Right where you're suppose to be. Growing just as you should be. Heart still beating, as you entered this world prematurely.
My stomach knots up and my chest feels so hot just thinking about your absence. How do I carry on when I'm not carrying you?
7 weeks without my my littlest love. 7 weeks of the deepest emptiness. 7 weeks of urgent longing. 7 weeks trying to undo the already done. 7 weeks fighting finality. 7 weeks of blurry tears. 7 weeks of Fridays reliving your Friday at 10:09am.
7 weeks too long.
I miss your sweet face, baby boy.