Same Coin
On November 9, we were laying on baby blue bedding in baby blue pajamas, blowing kisses to your dad and brother, away on their camping trip. “Hi Daddy and Charlie, goodnight, we love you!”
Twenty days later, I would be sitting at your funeral, your baby blue casket in front of me.
Henry, Henry, what’s your favorite color? You look up, your brown eyes smiling, you happily shout ”Green!”
Stopping, bending down to put your shoes on your little feet, your toddler hand resting on my shoulder, your favorite new purple shoes. Red Superman pajamas. The way the sun turns golden at the park, when I pushed you on the swings.
I go outside and breathe cold air. The January sunset is pink, bright and soft at the same time.
Henry, Henry, what color hair did Goldilocks have? You answer before we finish the question. Pink, you laugh, full of jokes.
I walk through a world that turned black and white one Saturday in November.
Henry, Henry, what’s your favorite animal? “Zee-Zee!” You shout, your nickname for zebra. I buy you a small stuffed black and white striped zebra in October. You love it, even though you would chunk it across the room in protest at bedtime. “Sleep is boring” you whined, and I laughed at the teenager in you.
I would find Zee-Zee under your bed in December, just a few days after your funeral. I hold it in my hands and feel it’s softness, a symbol of what we almost had and what never was.
“Two boys” your dad and I would smile at each other. How did we get so lucky? Life was perfect. Our life wasn’t really perfect, perfect… it just felt perfect.
Now, perfect is a cruel and uncaring word. It is an impossibility. It leaves you stranded and traps you, all at once.
So I hope for, instead, to hold some happiness with the grief. I hope for moments that feel full beside the moments of loss. They are two sides of the same coin, and I tuck it in my pocket and carry it with me, everywhere.
