Some people, they can’t just move on, you know, mourn and cry and be done with it. Or at least seem to be. But for me… I don’t know. I didn’t want to fix it, to forget. It wasn’t something that was broken. It’s just…something that happened. And like that hole, I’m just finding ways, every day, of working around it. Respecting and remembering and getting on at the same time.

The weight of it, I guess. At some point it becomes bearable. It turns into something that you can crawl out from under and you carry it around like a brick in your pocket. And you even forget it for a while, but then you reach in for whatever reason and there it is. Oh, right, that. This could be awful, but not all the time. It’s kind of…not that you like it exactly, but it’s what you’ve got instead of your son. And, so, you carry it around. You know, it doesn’t go away, which is…fine.