I want to read an article about raising a 13-year old boy and have it apply to me. I want to say I’m sorry for being busy and missing things I should have seen. I want to kiss their cheeks and hold them close and tickle and giggle and tell them about my day and hear about theirs.
Instead, I have to begin the process of accepting. All I can do is picture those things happening. And it makes me mad. Mad that it has to be done at all. Mad that they won’t be coming home. Mad that my boys have to figure out how to live their new stories too. Mad that I can’t make it better for them any more than my friends and family can make it better for me. Mad that people I meet won’t be able to know these precious people.
And it stinks. There are no two ways about it.