I watched Jaxon as he played the other day and as he turned just right—the sunlight hitting his beautiful, baby-chick-soft blonde hair, I was frozen into place. It was you. I mean, not that he looked like you, or spoke like you—I mean IT WAS YOU. Time stood still.
And, as often happens in these moments since you left, your spirit, or soul, or something, suddenly overwhelmed me. Memories so powerful and real and tender and heart-wrenching exploded not only in my mind, but all my senses.
I saw you. Clear as day, I saw you. You were 3 years old, dressed in denim shorts, a striped shirt and little blue Keds. You were chasing a chicken at some petting zoo we insisted on dragging you to every year. You were precious. Fragile. So young and God, so full of life. I saw you.
I heard you. As if you were standing there next to me, I heard you. You were singing along with an old Elvis CD I had made you listen to over and over. Your voice still young and strong, you smiled and asked me to play “Don’t Be Cruel” one more time. I heard you.
I tasted you. You were crying because a girl had broken your heart and as I bent to hold you in my arms, my mouth brushed your tears. Salty tears. I tasted you.
I smelled you. A combination of the outdoors, that cologne all young men wear, and your Mom’s laundry soap. I felt so weak. I smelled you.
I felt you. Everywhere. In everything. It was as if God exhaled a little bit of you into me to remind me of what once was and what will be again. I felt you.
Slowly, I sat down on the couch and simply breathed for a moment or two. In. Out. In. Out. And just as quickly as you came to me, you left. Suddenly, I was back in Jaxon’s playroom and he was Jaxon again. But just in case, I called him over, held him so close to me he couldn’t have gotten away if he wanted to, and whispered, “I love you.”
Monday, September 20, 2010
Dylan Michael
I watched Jaxon as he played the other day and as he turned just right—the sunlight hitting his beautiful, baby-chick-soft blonde hair, I was frozen into place. It was you. I mean, not that he looked like you, or spoke like you—I mean IT WAS YOU. Time stood still.
And, as often happens in these moments since you left, your spirit, or soul, or something, suddenly overwhelmed me. Memories so powerful and real and tender and heart-wrenching exploded not only in my mind, but all my senses.
I saw you. Clear as day, I saw you. You were 3 years old, dressed in denim shorts, a striped shirt and little blue Keds. You were chasing a chicken at some petting zoo we insisted on dragging you to every year. You were precious. Fragile. So young and God, so full of life. I saw you.
I heard you. As if you were standing there next to me, I heard you. You were singing along with an old Elvis CD I had made you listen to over and over. Your voice still young and strong, you smiled and asked me to play “Don’t Be Cruel” one more time. I heard you.
I tasted you. You were crying because a girl had broken your heart and as I bent to hold you in my arms, my mouth brushed your tears. Salty tears. I tasted you.
I smelled you. A combination of the outdoors, that cologne all young men wear, and your Mom’s laundry soap. I felt so weak. I smelled you.
I felt you. Everywhere. In everything. It was as if God exhaled a little bit of you into me to remind me of what once was and what will be again. I felt you.
Slowly, I sat down on the couch and simply breathed for a moment or two. In. Out. In. Out. And just as quickly as you came to me, you left. Suddenly, I was back in Jaxon’s playroom and he was Jaxon again. But just in case, I called him over, held him so close to me he couldn’t have gotten away if he wanted to, and whispered, “I love you.”
And, as often happens in these moments since you left, your spirit, or soul, or something, suddenly overwhelmed me. Memories so powerful and real and tender and heart-wrenching exploded not only in my mind, but all my senses.
I saw you. Clear as day, I saw you. You were 3 years old, dressed in denim shorts, a striped shirt and little blue Keds. You were chasing a chicken at some petting zoo we insisted on dragging you to every year. You were precious. Fragile. So young and God, so full of life. I saw you.
I heard you. As if you were standing there next to me, I heard you. You were singing along with an old Elvis CD I had made you listen to over and over. Your voice still young and strong, you smiled and asked me to play “Don’t Be Cruel” one more time. I heard you.
I tasted you. You were crying because a girl had broken your heart and as I bent to hold you in my arms, my mouth brushed your tears. Salty tears. I tasted you.
I smelled you. A combination of the outdoors, that cologne all young men wear, and your Mom’s laundry soap. I felt so weak. I smelled you.
I felt you. Everywhere. In everything. It was as if God exhaled a little bit of you into me to remind me of what once was and what will be again. I felt you.
Slowly, I sat down on the couch and simply breathed for a moment or two. In. Out. In. Out. And just as quickly as you came to me, you left. Suddenly, I was back in Jaxon’s playroom and he was Jaxon again. But just in case, I called him over, held him so close to me he couldn’t have gotten away if he wanted to, and whispered, “I love you.”
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