Another year has come and gone. My world has circled the sun seven times now since you first left. I have woken up 2,556 times without the ability to say good morning and kiss your sweet face. I have gone to bed 2,556 times without the ability to tuck you in and say our prayers together. I have missed reading you books, making you snacks, kissing your ouchies, watching you cruise around playgrounds and tickling your tummy until laughter filled tears rolled down your cheeks … more times than I could possibly count. Now take that unknown number and multiply it by a thousand. That’s the amount of times I have missed cradling your head in my hands, looking into your big blue eyes and saying, “I love you.” You are not in the world I’m in and I’m never going to be ok with it.
I feel like I am having to fight to celebrate you this year. I can’t even fully explain why. We have done our usual “birthday with no birthday boy” routine. The grief and hope dance is similar as year’s past, but something just feels … different. I feel like the further I get away from you, the harder I have to convince this world that you and this day are important. Why is that which is so obvious to me (seemingly) feel so foreign and excessive to others? Sometimes I feel like the world is looking down at us with a megaphone saying, “Ok. Time is up. Your "almost son” has had his moment. Stop fighting. We are tired of listening. Raise the white flag and move on.”
Don’t worry Logan … the world picked a fight with the wrong family.