It’s the little things. The details. It’s the sounds and smells and little moments that I can’t just can’t seem to pull up from the memory vault.
I’m sure that’s normal 10 years after the birth and death of our son.
In a few weeks, on February 24, I’ll be running a half marathon in memory of Charlie. I’ve been raising funds for the Ronald McDonald House of Central Georgia and have reached my lofty goal. To celebrate the amazing support I’ve had, from those who have known me since “before” and those who only know me “after,” I decided to present #24DaysOfCharlie on Facebook and my blog.
That’s easy enough, right? Come up with 24 things about my son who lived only 24 days?
It feels like just yesterday, so it shouldn’t be hard.
It’s been very difficult emotionally to realize how much I’ve forgotten. With the healing of the gaping wound of grief, though never fully healed, the memories (especially the acute ones) have been sealed up, away from accessibility.
Grieving never goes away. It’s always present, ever-changing.
So much of life “before” is hard for me to remember, and that unfortunately includes Charlie’s very short life. If only I could trade some of the seared-into-my-brain memories of his last few days, life support, and planning a funeral, for memories of sitting on the sofa cuddling my tiny bundle of joy.
I wish I could remember those moments that I took for granted, knowing that there would surely be years and years to collect them in my memory vault.
Searching my brain for any and all little memories has been exhausting. But so has ten years of grieving.