Twelve

 Twelve. You're supposed to be 12. I don't even know what that looks like. What does that mean? Anyone who knows me has heard me say that "I hate 12". As a parent, I've always felt like 12 is where I stop having the answers, and hormones kick in, and the craziness starts. But right now I'm so angry that I don't get to be annoyed by "12". 

Are you bigger? What kinds of things do you like to do? What do you want for your 12th birthday? I know what I want for all of your birthdays. I want to complain about how busy I am because it's the end of May and so many things are happening around us as we celebrate your day.  Instead, I'm doing what I always do the night before your birthday. I turn inside myself. I let the pain and the hurt wash over me. I allow my tears to wear me out to the point of falling asleep, only to awaken on that day and cry again. Everything else gets shut out, buddy. It's our day. Me and you. I can't let anyone else in, and I don't apologize for it. 

Still...none of that explains why you're not here. I'll never understand it. I used to be so very angry. I was even angry with YOU for leaving. I know that's not rational, but nothing with grief is ever rational. Sometimes I wonder what I had done to deserve this level of pain? What has anyone done to make them know the depths of Hell that are reached when you lose a child? But I know that isn't rational either. No one deserves this. No one. And ultimately, it doesn't even matter how it happened. The bed is still empty. My arms are still empty. 

I wonder if I were able to see you tomorrow, on your 12th birthday, if you'd be as tall as your big brother was when he turned 12. I know you saw him graduate recently. Were you a proud 12 year old brother, who showed his "brotherness" by poking fun of him and laughing at his expense? Or are you our sweet, loving, cuddly baby brother with blue eyes as deep as the ocean? Could I drink in your baby soft curls if I were allowed to visit for the day? 

These are the questions that won't be answered. These are the things that gnaw at my heart, and bring me to my knees in the strangest moments. I'll never know why you had to leave. I'll never know if my decisions were the "right" ones. I won't get to do it over again, and change the story. So, I'll do what I do on our day. I'll go to our place. I'll sit in the screaming silence. I'll let the burning wash over me. And tomorrow, I'll love "12".