Someone close to me wondered today why they should acknowledge that today is that day.
Someone wondered why I am still talking about my son or why I pause to remember, to muse, to cry, to smile, to whatever journey my feelings take me on the second day my life changed forever.
I do it because he was and is and he mattered. His life was more than the way he died and in the past years when I have actively remembered, it has given me back the special bond I had with my firstborn. It reminded me of why I do the things I do now with his younger siblings, and why I do not take for granted their presence in my life. I do it because he is still alive to me, he always will be.
It may be "exhausting" or "over-the-top" or "tiring" for some, but never for me.
No one knows how one will feel unless it happens to them.
I was a young woman, barely, and sheltered. I didn't know anything. Any my son was killed.
How was I supposed to process that?
Who cares that it has taken me thirty-one years to process that?
Why does it matter how many times I want to send up balloons and have cake on his birthday and spread flowers on the day he passed?
He was more, oh so much more than his short seven months.
I remember because I have too and if it is too much for the people around me, too damn bad.