This morning’s Facebook memory.
A year ago today Chandler met Charli and me for Thai food. Four and a half months later, I wore those jeans to his memorial service.
I want to look at this picture and just remember the fun we had at lunch and how he and Charli jumped up together in front of the fountain outside for a photo op. I’m grateful we had that time together. There is a shadow cast on the gratitude — the searing reality that a lunch like that will never happen again.
I was comforted a bit when I read a passage from Healing After Loss this afternoon:
What would our loved one want more than to see us lifted from our sadness? And indeed, the truth of who the person was can come to us much better once some of the grief has passed. In the early stages, we are preoccupied not with the memory of our loved one, but with our own pain.
Is it really possible that one day I will look at pictures of Chandler, pass by his bike memorial, watch a video of him on wheels, or read the words he wrote in my Mother’s Day cards and feel pure joy even though I know there will never be a new picture or skateboard trick or Mother’s Day card from my sweet boy? This is not a rhetorical question. I want to know. Is it possible? Will there come a day when I will be able to see those FaceBook memories that pop up and not feel punched in the gut when Chandler’s face is there?
Chandler, thank you for hanging out with Charli and me over Thai food. I think I remember you going skateboarding afterward before you went into work at Board & Brew. You always were adventurous with food and with life. We are trying to live into that ourselves and make you proud. Today your dad threw some apple into his salad! We love you. It hurts so much to not have you here. I hear it gets easier. Well, maybe not easier, just different. Whether it does or doesn’t, we have each other, and we will be OK.