How did we manage to survive the initial emotional Hiroshima?
How did we remember to breathe when the pain was stronger than the desire to stay alive?
How did we live beyond the very traumatic firsts: the first night without our boy, the first week, the first month?
And now, the first year.
I don’t know.
I still don’t know.
All I know is that even if it sounds like an eternity, this year has changed nothing when it comes to our longing for a different ending and to our emotional pain.
We still think of Georgie every day.
We still miss his presence.
We still wonder how it would have been to be four, everywhere we go. For pizza, to the beach, on weekend trips.
We still feel his physical absence, even now, after a year.
We miss having another car seat at the back.
We miss having another mouth to feed.
We miss buying blue swimming trunks and shark t-shirts.
We miss seeing Emma learning to share and love and protect her younger sibling.
We miss the joy we would have felt.
We miss the normality we feel we were so entitled to, so many other families are!
We claw our way out of the dark every single day.
We fight to stay alive, to want to be alive, to give meaning to our existence.
Nothing is serene anymore.
Nothing is a given.
It is all conscious choice.
And deciding to use every breath we take and every word we utter meaningfully.
It is careful living.
It is painful living.
It is living with the awareness of human fragility and pain and death.
Sweet boy, are you happy where you are?
Are you proud of us and the way we continue to live here, despite the strong magnetic pull we feel to come and join you in the peace and the quiet?
Can you feel our love and determination to make your existence known?
Can you feel our fierce desire to honour your sweet spirit and joyfulness?
Can you feel our hearts still attached to yours, for ever and ever?
Can you still feel our deep, deep love for you?
We love you.
Mummy, daddy and Emma.