I always write something for you on or around your birthday, but this year, I find myself struggling, grappling for the words. What do I say that I haven’t already said? Words all seem to fall flat on the paper, inadequate and awkward and by no means conveying the true depth of what I am feeling now in this moment. I am reminded again, as in years prior, there are no new words to describe the pain of missing you, especially today.
As year four finds me today on your birthday, it will find me no different than the previous ones. I still miss you. I still love you. I still wish more than anything in this world that you were here with me, with us. And the hole in my heart still hurts as much as it did when we said our hurried goodbyes. I can still close my eyes and relive every second of those moments with you. They are all I have now, and that still isn’t okay nor will it ever be. What choice do I have though? It’s where this road has taken us. It’s bumpy and rocky and hard to travel, but it’s the only one that leads me to you. And with a simple close of eyes, my journey down it begins, finding you as I left you four years ago today, wanting more than anything in the world to save you and watching helplessly as I could not.
And so little one, I’ll hold on to the memories, few that they are, to get me through today. I’ll rely on the love of your brothers and your dad to help ease the sorrow engulfing my heart. And as we release balloons today, I’ll be wishing like them I too could sail up to the heavens, if only for a moment, to see you, to hold you, to kiss you and tell you, “Happy Birthday, my squirmy worm. I love you. Always and forever.”