I haven’t written much this summer. Summer, the baby (I can see how this will get confusing), has kept me very busy and very tired. But I’ve also gotten tired of myself…tired of my grief. I feel like I’ve said it all. How many different ways can a person say, “I am sad?” Unhappy, blue, melancholic, heavyhearted, downcast, down in the mouth, smutný, ked af det, malungkot, üzücü, huzuni, triste, traurig…
I am sad today like I was a year ago, I’ve just learned to manage it better. There are certain thoughts that bring tears. There are dark places I cannot go or risk an emotional attack. I now gingerly step around the ruts in the road. I’m not healed. I’m just hobbling along.
I also have not written because the few minutes of spare time I have each day I want to spend with my son. I’ve been going through old photo CDs and watching my son grow. It feels good to laugh at memories I’d forgotten. I avoid more recent pictures because then I’m seeing the end of a story. When I was a child, I always cried when Mary Poppins flew away leaving Jane and Michael Banks with their parents. Ethan did too. You’re supposed to feel happy for the Banks family since Mary has helped them become a stronger more loving family. But I always wanted to know why Mary couldn’t stay.
David and I spent some time on the couch together looking at photos and remembering. He later thanked me for it and said I should feel comfortable talking about Ethan at any time. I do, but what can I say that I haven’t already said?
Ava still cries occassionally. When she makes a wish, it is for her brother to be alive. While climbing the play structure recently, she needed a lift and wished her brother could be there to give her a boost. We wish he could have been here to help her go to kindergarten. They could have shared a seat on the bus. Instead we put her in a private kindergarten with a very small class and explained to the teacher that Ava frequently talks about her brother, which means Miss Amber, you may have to discuss death with your five-year-olds.
David and I are already losing track of Ethan’s age. He would be going into second grade. Oops. No, the third grade. He would be seven. Oops. No, eight-years-old. What would he look like? How tall would he be? Would he be tired of Star Wars?
It has been a deeply, deeply sad summer. And now the air turns cool in the morning, green leaves transform into gold and red, and jack-o-lanterns and costumes appear in the stores. This, more than the anniversary of Ethan’s death, feels like the end of our first year without him.
