I don’t have a lot of memories from that time but the ones I have are so burned in that if I close my eyes I can remember them all: the sound of my scream in the tiny room, the heaviness of the bedroom after I was left alone, the way the curtains swooshed when they opened for the first time, the sound of the running shower as I lay curled, naked, in a ball on the floor, and your tiny hand sliding into mine on that beautiful fall day moments before I dropped to my knees.

I don’t know how I got there. Who drove?  How did everyone know to show up?  Who made those decisions?  Memory is fascinating and equally frustrating.  I have so many questions.

We stood, new parents, bereaved, next to a hole in the earth.  Everyone we loved, one step back from us as if we were untouchable.  We were untouchable.  No one wanted to touch our grief, we were alone, or so it felt.

But you, Sweet Boy, you closed that gap.  Were you watching me with those beautiful baby blues?  Did you know that I was so weak I would soon drop? 

At 10 years old you did what most adults didn’t, couldn’t, or wouldn’t dare.  You stepped forward, quietly, so very silently, and took my shaking hand into yours.  There, above the hole in the earth, you stood with me in my grief. 

This time of year is hard for all of us.  I am by no means the star of this show.  I think sometimes I forget that we were all there.  We all lost her.  We all grieve her.  We all honour her.  You, at only 10 years old, dealt with loss.  You, at only 10 years old, chose to step forward, bridge that gap, and touch the untouchable.  You, at only 10 years old slid your tiny hand into mine and for that I am forever grateful.