We Are Different, You and I

I wake up every morning for the past 45 months, knowing my child is somewhere else. The universe, heaven, ashes to ashes, just not physically here. My feet dangle over the bed, and I want this to not be true, and it is. Yet I continue to pray, for what? That is the great mystery. I remain a parent in grief, and that makes us very different.

I go to bed every night, pleading or praying, sometimes they merge, to see my son in my dreams. Laughing, young or 25, he often comes in the night, ever so briefly, but I see him. Forever can be a long time.

Mary at the foot of the cross, let's me know that maybe I am not so different after all.