It’s the little things that are missed most of all when someone you love is gone. The sound of their laughter….the whiff of their particular scent….the jingle of their keys at the door….the sideways glance that communicates volumes….the phone ringtone you set just for their calls. So many, many little things.
I can get through my days well enough—even happily, living the life I came to live—until one of those tiny things, those meaningless things to anyone else, takes me to my knees. It’s these little things—these little missing things—that make it so apparent they are gone. He is gone. My boy is gone.
And yes, I do know that he lives on. I know it fully and wholly. But that “living on” is different from the “gone” I am talking about. All of you in grief—you know it is.
But here’s the thing. The thing I want to share.
When my son was a little guy, he had regular weekend visits with his dad. He liked to see his dad, but he was also always, always sad to go. He didn’t want to “miss Mommy,” as he told me. I didn’t want to miss my boy either. So, we found a way to stay connected. Each time he left, I’d kiss the palm of his hand with a big, smacking kiss. He’d do the same to mine. We said that if we missed each other, we could just put our palm to our cheek, and we’d be there. We agreed that no amount of hand washing could ever wash away the kisses. They would never wear away. They were forever.
So now, all these years later, I have a lifetime of his sweet little boy kisses in the palm of my hand. I lay my hand to my cheek, and I feel him there. He is there and present with me. His heart and his love are there. My boy is there.
It’s a little thing—a little thing that is everything. A little thing that is mine. Always. My boy here in the palm of my hand. And no one can take him away.
That was so beautiful Dona- I cried