I wrote this in my notes in my phone during the first weeks after you were born, during a walk through the botanical gardens behind work. This is where I spent my hour lunch everyday, to silently escape, and weep, and connect to you after returning to work far too soon. The words I typed then, I repeat in my mind so often. They read:
I hate the phrase “I lost you.” It sounds like I misplaced you. I have not lost you or misplaced you. In fact, I know exactly where you are. You’re with me everyday, you’re apart of me, you’ll always remain in my heart.
You are gone. The surest, most painful, most permanent kind of gone. The kind of gone that makes it impossible to touch you, to hold you. The kind of gone that sometimes makes me feel gone too. The kind of gone that will never be – gone. Because you’re with me everyday, you’re apart of me, you’ll always remain in my heart.
Life is still happening and I find myself going through the motions but I don’t feel like I’m living. I want to live. If I can’t live with you I must find a way to live for you. Please send me signs from the skies on how I can live with you and for you without you.
I love you. You’re with me everyday, you’re apart of me, you’ll always remain in my heart.