His birthday was easy this year, so let out the breath I was holding and moved into June.
Tonight, it struck me as I closed the door to Kathleen's room. I could (should) have a four year old right now. Four. I see that in other children, other families and can't quite picture it here in my house. Four. I know, I recognized that on his birthday, but it hit me with that sudden realization that I can't see four, can't imagine it here.
Tonight, it rolled over me as I sat comforting and settling Elizabeth. I held Henry the day he died—but not the day he was born. And sadness rumbled up though me for the four year old that I will never know. For the first day I will never have. For that last day that I will always have.
All of what I said just before his birthday holds true, but this is true too. This is where I am tonight in the missing wallow and the disbelief.