Last night, Owen visited me in my dream. I haven’t had this since the night he died. I have been aching for it. Laying in an incubator, he looked so very peaceful. He reached out, took my hand in his, tightening his grip before resting our hands, together, on his tummy. I could feel his warmth. It felt so good. I woke up replaying the moment in my head. Over and over, desperately trying to affirm its place in my memory. It was a comforting, happy, start to the day.
Over the course of the morning, the happy feelings gave way to anxiety. A deep, down, something just isn’t right feeling. Something just isn’t right. I did not like it, but I sat with it.
Now, the sadness is here. As the tears roll down my cheeks, I can barely muster the energy to write this. I am sitting here thinking about how I want more. I am thankful for this moment spent together in the land of dreams, I am. I just want more. More of my son’s touch. My son’s smell. More of my son’s warmth. More.
In these moments where I feel unable to move, to do anything, to adventure with my son, I worry that I am failing at my duties as a parent. I fear that by sitting with my sadness, I am not honouring him. That I am breaking my promise to explore and discover the world with him.
In these moments, it is my son that keeps me going. His gentle, curious spirit lifts me up.
He takes me by the hand.
Come on mummy, let’s go, show me what’s good in the world.
So I dry up the tears, placing the tissue in my pocket for safe keeping, and off we go. Out into the forest, to breathe in the fresh mountain air, in pursuit of peace of mind. Together. Let’s go, little one.