My 8-Year-Old Is Gone
But life can go on
Last night I accepted the fact that my child gymnast is gone. Really gone.
Watching a live stream of the Men’s gymnastics Elite Team Cup, I never saw Ben once. Beautiful routine after routine, and not a single one of them was from him.
I know now for certain that he will never compete again. Our family will never hold its collective breath during his signature presses and precise aerial work on the floor. His grandparents will never frantically call for news.
“How did he do? Can you send videos?”
Ben had started competing for real at age eight. No matter how hard he fell, he always sprung back up. Until he didn’t.
When I was eight, I remember the ringing of our phone in the middle of the night, the muffling of words, and the sobbing in the bathroom. I knew it was Grandmommy who was gone from us even though she had vibrantly laughed the day before.
Why did I know the 2am phone call was about her?
Grandmommy had held the family together. She demanded the decency of all the generations and all the cousins. Within days of her passing, the security we knew was gone, lost amidst the squabbling and indecency.
