Where is Chandler?
Today a friend asked me where Chandler was buried. I told her he is being cremated. Then I thought, "Wait, he is not being cremated. He's not in there any more."
My son inhabited a body -- the body that I gave birth to. That I held and nursed and rocked. That I picked up and bandaged. That I hugged and kissed. That I drove to skate parks and BMX jumps and school dances. That I baptized in my tears as it lay broken and still.
I ache to touch his skin, to smell his scent, to hear his voice. It was just a body. But it was my son's body. It was the container for his precious spirit, the strong, resilient container that allowed him to leap, flip, ride, swim, dive, dance, hug, write, create.
The moment Chandler took his last breath, he no longer had any use for that body. He was, in an instant, completely free of the constraints of gravity and physics that he consistently tested while he was Chandler with skin on.
It is too much for my mind to comprehend that my son is no longer in the body that held him, that I was privileged to hold, for 25 years. I keep watching for signs that he's around. I believe he is. I just can't see him any more, and that's just about the worst thing I can imagine right now.