The words do not always come easily. Sometimes I want to talk about my sons on here. They are so gorgeous and so ALIVE. They breathe and fight and play and jump and I cannot get over the miracle that they are here with me.
Eva's portulaca roses are blooming in her garden. I caress them gently and the softness in each petal reminds me of the softness of her skin. The perfect baby skin that she had. So flawless (except for the scar on her neck) and soft and gorgeous, and pink. The same shade of pink as the pale pink roses.
Not the blue she was when she was dying. Oh no, not the blue, not the gray, not the yellow of a body with no blood or oxygen pumping through it. I want to scream these words as they ricochet around my mind. Not blue. Pink. Pink. Pink!
The boys interrupt my thoughts with crying as someone fell off a bike and scraped a knee. Or someone pushed someone on the trampoline. Or someone didn't get a box of raisins. Sometimes I want to scream that they are alive. Stop fighting and crying, be grateful that your heart beats and your lungs draw breath. In that same moment, the fear, like bile, rises in my mouth that this might be it. This might be their last day and I better hold them close and I better hug them like there is no tomorrow with them because, Lord knows, all of a sudden, there was no tomorrow with Eva and, oh, what I would not do to hold her living body in my arms just one more time.
This is a glimpse of my life. Part grieving mother trying to hold my daughter close by caressing rose petals and, shift, part referee to 3 of the most beautiful boys I know. Who am I really... honestly, sometimes I feel lost in all the worlds I inhabit.
I look at my sons and I know what they would look like dead. I know they would kind of look like themselves, but also wouldn't. I know that I would scream and cry and wish they would sass me one more time...that I could yell at them to stay away from the dugout. Stay away, my son, my son. My fear of one of them drowning is huge. Or that one of them will get cancer, and we will live at the hospital again. Oh, my sons. My sons.
I've lost one child and there is this little niggle in the back of my mind that says I've paid my dues to Death. Death has claimed one of my children so the others must be 'safe'...but I know...I know that there are no dues to Death. The price has already been paid to Death, and my little girl is more alive than I am.
And I know that I cannot keep my children safe. I cannot. They are not really mine to keep safe anyway, and Death may come a-knocking anytime again, and I cannot keep my children safe.
I feel more vulnerable and exposed now than I did before Eva died, because now I know.
Now I know that Death knows where I live.
And that is a difficult thought to go to bed with as I lock my doors and check that my sons are still breathing one last time before trying to find some rest in sleep for another night.
And as I slip from wakefulness to sleep I pray for dreams of Eva. Dreams of the sweetest girl I ever held on earth.