I took Damien and Everett to their pediatrician (who is also my cousin and dear friend) for their well-checks. It's the first time they've had an appointment together...and the first time I've been there since Atticus died. I did Damien and Atticus's appointments together whenever possible, and everything was full of echos of what was and will never be again.
I don't know what to say. So I decided to say nothing at all. I trust that you, in your deep grief and depression, are willing to give me the benefit of the doubt. That you can just step outside of yourself for a minute. I'm not not talking to you because I don't love you. I'm not not talking to you because I don't miss your (is it ok if I say this? I mean, maybe you've forgotten?
It's been a hard week. A week where I have been digging and digging for joy, and finding only despair.
Everett turned three! (And Atticus wasn't there to see it.)
My younger sister gave birth to a beautiful, healthy girl! (And now there is someone in our family who never has, and never will, meet Atticus.)
Atticus is bereft, and I am Atticus bereft. Atticus was robbed, deprived of his life. It was too soon, too unexpected. We don't have the full pathology reports yet, but the virus was almost certainly some run-of-the-mill little thing. Something his brothers and I all had and barely noticed. And it conspired with his body, his little fierce body that I so loved, and stole away his