On March 2nd, I woke to the sound of rain. It had been twenty-three years since my son’s death. Even the skies wept for this beautiful man who had died ten days before his 36th birthday.
I knew I was okay, fine really, as reconciled to his suicide as I’ll probably ever get. But I wished he could visit—just a touch, a hug, a few words, so little to ask. I miss him. I wept with the rain as my heart remembered its wounding.
Another anniversary but I must live my life fully. He’d want it that way. So I went about my day, finding others to love and care for, giving a touch, a hug, a few intimate words. So little and yet so much. It rained all day.