For men do cry when they can see Their loss of immortality. And tears will come in endless streams, When mindless fate destroys their dreams. It is very hard, if not altogether impossible, to accept the death of one's child with grace. Now, as another season of rebirth and renewal springs forth, I find myself once again, having to swallow an underlying bitterness that I manage, with some difficulty, to keep under cover most of the year. Spring is here once again.
Trees are bursting, flowers are sprouting, children are outside playing and love is blooming.
It is a truly irresistible time of year. And yet, despite my love of the garden and the weather and the magic of nature, I feel an unmistakable sense of anger for all that my child is missing and the joy his loss has robbed me of feeling. Loss like ours, makes us angry. My anger is one thing I cannot and will not relinquish. I carry it as an internal torch that alternately flares and dims with each season, each memorable date, each cataclysmic event reported in the news, every careless comment, every celebration.