I am sitting here at the scrapbook table; well, today it is a scrapbook table, yesterday it was filled with bills, tomorrow…who knows. But for today, it is a table covered in memories across a collage of patterned paper. All of those little eyes looking at me. How thankful I am for every one of those moments. Grateful, too, that I can remember them all.
Out of all of them, one stands out. The man who gave me this child. In the photo, he is lying next to him, our son, who is cradled in his arms. Something collides in my mind as a tear and a smile emerge simultaneously. So many days I have wished to call him back from where ever it is he has landed. I know that is an impossibility. After a certain amount of time, you would think that would sink in, but my brain can be as stubborn as my heart.
My fingertips graze across the mass of photos, the years of minutes and seconds strewn together, and I wonder if he saw any of them. Could he have, or did they escape him? My smile is sympathetic as I think of the futures he will miss. That our boy will miss without his daddy. There is no way for me to write to him, speak to him, or record those times to send to him. He may or may not see them. But to one little boy, he will notice the vacancy. Though I wonder if someday, he won’t anymore. Someday, he will not see the empty space that I do. He is so young, and it has already confused me how easy this has been for him. Don’t misunderstand, many times, I can see a look on his face which only comes from missing someone. Children have a way of shielding themselves from that type of pain. They are able to laugh again, moments after crying. Sometimes, instead of crying.
I choose this photo to lay on the page. A moment to be celebrated–a moment to be mourned. It lays alone, on an empty page. I imagine it will for sometime. I am no longer in the mood for crafting; I’m just in the mood for missing.