It’s 6:27 a.m., and the world outside my window is still cloaked in winter’s darkness. A couple of police cars just sped past my house, their sirens cutting through the silence, shattering the fragile stillness of the morning. The sound brought me back. Back to the early hours of that unfathomable morning when my son was taken from me.
My chest tightened as if someone had reached inside and clenched my heart. The air seemed to thin around me, and for a moment, I couldn’t breathe. I wasn’t there when he passed, but I can still see the scene so vividly in my mind. It’s frozen in time, haunting me. The hours felt like years as I tried to grasp the unimaginable. The overwhelming noise of my thoughts and the crushing silence of his absence filled every corner of my being.
My body feels the horror as if it’s happening again, a cruel loop I can’t escape. I remember wishing I could wake up, praying it wasn’t real. But reality offered no escape, no reprieve.
This morning, as the sirens faded into the distance, they left behind a hollow ache—a reminder of what was lost and the emptiness that remains. The pain doesn’t fade. It doesn’t soften. It lingers, ever-present, finding ways to intertwine with my days.
I miss my son with every fiber of my being. He was my light, my joy, my reason. And now, there are moments—moments like this—where the darkness feels too heavy to bear. I’m not okay, and maybe that’s okay too. Grief doesn’t follow a timeline. It doesn’t care about time at all.
I wish I could honor him in a way that feels enough, that feels right. All I can do is hold his memory close, even through the pain, and hope that somewhere, somehow, he knows just how much he is loved and missed every single day.
In this silence, I carry him with me. Always.
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