It's been just over a month now that you have been gone. The leaves have turned and are falling off the trees, leaving many branches bare. The days are shorter and occasionally punctuated by brightness. It is too quiet here. Before you were born, I knew it might be like this one day -- your dad and I living in a too-quiet space surrounded by your unused things -- but knowing it might be coming and living with the reality of your absence are two very different things.
I think often of the last day I had with you when your eyes were open and you were so alert -- how you moved your mouth as if trying to form words and how I just talked with you: asking you questions which I knew you could not answer, telling you how much you amazed me and how much I loved you. I knew from conversations with the doctors that the odds were stacked against us, but I still had so much hope for you. As long as I could look into those eyes, I could not dream of letting you go.
But it seemed clear that no matter how hard we fought to keep you here, there were some setbacks from which your poor little body could not rebound. For your heart and lungs, your liver, your kidneys, and your brain it had just been too much. Even your blood. I was there by your bedside that Sunday afternoon when the most optimistic doctor you had said that any hope we had left was not in medicine.
I miss you, Ewan. It took some time for me for the shock of all that happened and how quickly it happened to wear off, but I knew it would. At first, things had to be done and planned and organized. E-mails had to be answered, calls made. Now life has slowed, and tears rise even more frequently than before. The hurt is settling in more. I have to let you go every day, over and over again.
As I sit here and stare at the screen and beg words to form, knowing I have more to say to you, they won't. The words don't come, and my eyes fill with tears. I know days will come where remembering you will be easier and the words will pour forth freely. But for now I will let all of this remain wordless, and instead let my heart ache and my eyes sting.
It won't always be this way, I know. Even now, we are able to welcome laughter and life into our days. But it does not surprise me that most of the time, I need to let the newness of it all settle more into my bones, and I find myself needing to let go again and again.