A Parallel Universe
To my little Henry sunshine,
Sometimes when it’s all just too much, I like to think that you are just in a parallel universe. I tell myself that somewhere in the deep reaches of space, past all of the stars blinking back at me on these cold, clear January nights, we are still together. We are blissful and complete, unaware of the loss that pierces us so.
In a parallel universe, I get to see you grow up, grow tall into a sweet, brown-eyed boy. Somewhere, you are turning 4 this February. In some other life, you are still waking me up too early and being grumpy and making us laugh with your jokes.
Somewhere, happiness is just happiness, with no dark thread of grief weaving through.
You would still have your dad’s kind eyes, your perfect Henry laugh, your same sweetness we always loved. Somewhere, some place I can’t reach, you would still be burying your face in my neck when you felt shy.
Somewhere, you are learning your letters. You only knew A, O, and S. Sometimes T. Somewhere, you are still growing up in the family pictures.
In this parallel universe, a fever is just a fever. There is nothing menacing just below the surface, silent, undetectable. Somewhere, November 24th is just another day.
In a parallel universe, I am still sleeping beside you, smiling at the way you toss and turn. We are waking up to the sounds of birds high in the trees outside the back windows. Those birds still sweetly sing.
In some other life, you are still you, and I am still me, and we are still us.
In a parallel universe, your green scooter is not tucked quietly away in a closet.
And I am untouched and unchanged by the heaviness of loss, and light, light, light as a feather.
