I continue to brace myself, as few find the courage to speak of my son.
8 months after and my neck is still stiff. The clinching, the grasping, the foolishness, the silence. It is still so fresh, the ground so alive with eating his little body.
As time so freakishly passes, my longing grows, my friend’s safe distance still stings, and I am forgetting my boys sweet smell.
“No one can bring my boy back”, and no one tries.
I am lonely, I am scared.
Carrying this burden, instead of carrying my son, is an evil I wish on no one and yet my lonliness, my darkness wishes on all, so alas I do not feel as if I am the only one in the forest.
As I daily stare Satan in the face and spit, as I parade on broken glass, curse all.
If I hear one more “God is Good!” or “He knows what he is doing.” The ignorance of these cliches burns, as I hold my sons picture up to their hallow theologies, it all breaks down, their idea of God crumbles in light of his beauty.
My world is now too full, my theology must be that of snake skin, to continue to shed, to move, to mold, my idea of God must meet a darker, fuller world.
Yes there and only there can I find rest.