The bright sun is depressing. The gray rain is a balm.
Sometimes all I can think is I’velostmysonI’velostmysonI’velostmyson until I remember to keep breathing. To keep moving. To keep doing anything before the next wave surges over me again.
But you were very sick.
The woman at the funeral home gives me a hug before I go, your ashes tucked carefully into a black velvet bag. I say thank you. I say without you, we would not be able to bring our son home. You ride in the passenger seat, something not even your big brother can do yet.
I never noticed how many cars have carseats. Never thought the handle of one, outlined through tinted windows, would strike like a knife between my ribs.
Some days are harder than others. So I listen to podcasts, the sound of murderers and criminals reverberating through our large, empty house until I remember to turn the lights on.
At least our son wasn’t murdered, I tell my husband. At least he did not suffer.
We all thought you would be a girl. As such, your baby blanket is pink. Abuela apologized for this discrepancy. But your father looks dashing in rosada, so it’s okay.
You were very sick.
A death sentence, I think is how one article describes your condition. And for this, I am relieved you passed, tucked safely away in my body. What better way to hold you close as you drew your last breath. As your heart stuttered through its last beat. As your little hands slackened and never moved again. What better way.
It’s not so bad being a walking tomb, when you think about it like that.
Just Thoughts 