It’s been nine years.
Henry lived for 7,220 days and he’s now been dead for 3,287.
What does that mean? What am I measuring?
Some things don’t change so there’s nothing to measure. For example, that sinking feeling every time I realize that he’s not coming back. No matter how long I wait, it will never be long enough. All the patience in the world won’t help. Another thing that doesn’t change is the feeling of failure as a parent. Even 80% isn’t a passing grade. This is a test you have to score 100% on. The bar is high and you don’t get to take it again. Even when I am grading my own test I can’t give myself a break. Or rather I can, but I won’t. And what about the missed opportunities? All the things Henry could have done but now has not. So much could have happened if he’d just survived that night. And that question I still ask myself. Why?
The things that do change are not measurable because they are always changing. They ebb and flow, rise and fall, shrink then grow then shrink again. The weight and pain of loss are as unpredictable as the weather. I think I know what’s coming but it turns out different. I keep my umbrella with me wherever I go. Just in case. And what about the missing? The emptiness, the negative space that Henry left behind like a second shadow that walks around with me. It comes and goes as well. You can’t see it on sunny days.
The only thing that is stoked by days is the fear of oblivion. The heartbreak of forgetting. What will happen when the wounds heal? Will the scars be enough to remind me of what I lost? Should I pick at the scabs so they won’t heal? Because I don’t trust myself to remember that I had another son? A tall one with bushy hair. Truth is I will never forget. And I won’t forget that night, those phone calls, the visit from the police, the quake that shattered everything, the awful days and months that followed. But it does get blurry as the thousands of days go by.
One more day, one more year, does it make a difference? You want to forget and also you don’t.