June Gloom

Inevitably, as I turned the page of the calendar to June, I was struck by the hard-hitting realization that it's been nearly two years since I held my son in my arms.  It's been nearly two years since I was able to keep him safe inside of my belly, two years since I felt him move, two years since I heard his strained cries, two years since his hands wrapped around my fingers, two years since I kissed him, stroked his hair, touched his cheek, washed his clothes, made his bottles, soothed him, rocked him - done all of the things that so many people take for granted.

In Huntington Beach this time of year is marked by overcast mornings, leading residents to refer to the "June gloom."  Today there's little I wouldn't give to trade this blazing Bakersfield sun for a sticky, misty Orange County morning.  It doesn't feel right that the sun should shine, or the birds should sing, or the grass should grow.  It doesn't feel right to have life go on as if it wasn't turned upside down nearly two years ago when I buried the child that I once thought I would see crawl, and walk, and graduate high school, and whose hand I would hold when I left this world - not the other way around.

But the sun does shine, and the birds do sing, and life does go on, and the scars on my heart stretch to heal, but they are so fresh even still.  Once again, the words seem insufficient, but they are all I have:  "I miss my son."  I miss him with a longing that is deep, and pervasive, and insatiable, and barely tolerable.  I miss him.

http://youtu.be/UFdfpLAzSxg