My littlest Theo,
I am here today with you, listening to the water lap up on the shore of the Bay of Quinte. My heart is so heavy, it is tired. I can’t stop wishing from every fibre of my being things were different. Missing you are words that are pale and seem to fall very short of how I feel.
We have lived 224 days without you. Life around me seems normal, the world is still turning, people still have love in their hearts, people still act out of hate, and the everyday routine seems to not have skipped a beat. Anyone looking from the outside would probably think it looks like our life too is back to normal and all is well. You could be our boys living in our home and think the exact same thing. Yet it is all a farce. We are tired, emotionally and physically. Walking around living everyday life carrying the weight of the loss of you is heavy and hard work. Behind every smile, laughter, trip to the grocery store, books read to your brothers, and the other 101 items on a list of simple tasks we all perform each day is your Mom who is doing this all with a 100lbs of grief on her back, and at times a paralyzing force around her that she has no choice but break through and put on a brave face, take on real life and do all that needs to be done.
Your Dad and I are exhausted. After a full day with your brothers, a full day at work for your Dad, then dinner, bath, books and bed we have very little time or energy to feel you. Like to really feel it, to talk about you, to move forward and to unload some of the weight.
We need a break, a break together. Time to focus on each other, to be at home, or not rush home, to cry together, to laugh together, to not cry, to sleep a full night, to fill our tanks without taking care of real life. Today until tomorrow morning we get a break, your brothers are happy as can be spending the night with your Poppa and Markin Williams. So here I sit, with you feeling all I have pushed aside because I had no time or because I was simply too tired to go there at times.
When you passed there was a sense of urgency to help us and we are forever grateful for every act of love but needing help isn’t over. This wasn’t a sprint, and it isn’t a marathon but this is our forever. We aren’t just normal parents walking like zombies from the grind of having a 2 & 3 year old we are those zombies with an added load that holds a weight that is often too heavy to carry and we need rest. I pray that all of your friends in heaven have parents that are being loved and helped years after they were separated. Those who haven’t suffered a loss of a child will never understand that it isn’t just a emotional exhaustion but a physical one. Having time to refill physically allows time for the heart to also refill with peace. We all have tanks that hold love, peace, and physical energy. These tanks need to be refilled otherwise just like a car you will stall.
Theo, my sweetest little man I am sitting on top of where you were laid to rest, writing to you,and having the closest to a “Mommy Theo day” we will ever have. My heart weeps for you but I am so grateful to have this time with you nonetheless. Your Grandparents just gave us a really great gift.
The sun is shining, the wind is blowing a beautiful gentle breeze and the water sounds calming. Together we share this, as you are all three of those things. I feel you blow through, I feel your love shining down with the warmth of the sun and the sweet sound of the lapping water is as gentle as your love for me and all those who we share space with.
I miss you in immeasurable ways. Today, tomorrow and always. You are my son of all sons, the one I hold in my heart and to never be held in my arms again.
Your forever loving Mommy.