This beautiful boy left us on the morning of St. Patrick’s Day.
I know I have some things to express but they won’t come. I feel as though I have consumed a meaty loaf of German rye bread, and it is lodged in my chest, pressing against my rib cage. The loaf forms the start of a tiny scab which protects me, and I don’t know how I feel about that scab. I can’t live feeling as raw as I have but I can’t decide: let the scab do its healing work or tear it off again?
I may write more another day. I may not.