We are in the midst of grief. Some days are numb, allowing light to filter through the fog. Other days not even the hands infront of us are visable. We are suffocating in sorrow, disorientated and weak. Waking hours are cold and broken. I spend the nights looking for him, as if I have slept through a feed or left him asleep in another room.
At about 5pm every afternoon as the colour of the haze begins to change and midday clocks off in anticipation of dusk, grief arrives to swallow up the remainder of the day. This part of our daily routine signifies family time, settling in for the night. I had day dreams of you asleep on my shoulder while I ate one handed and we listen as your big sister tells us what she did at school that day. It is a hollow 12 hours that rolls slowly to meet the dawn chorus. A new day leaves me feeling further away from you. I am wondering when the hospital will call to say you are ready to return to us.
Amongst the disorientation come little messages, subtle direction in the endless hollow tunnels. I found this little lego man in the bathroom, I’ve never seen him before. I took it as a message to say “I’m here”. You are such a clever boy. I’ve put him on my bedside table like a guardian angel. It is raining so heavily today even the dog won’t go outside! I hope you are staying home today but if you do go outside at least put a coat on xxxx