My son, my beautiful boy, will be 26 years old in a few hours.
For his birthday, I wish him peace, and forgiveness, and love.
I wish I could call him and say "Happy Birthday!" But he would hang up on me, I think, so I don't even try.
Maybe later I'll email his friend and ask him to pass Fox a message."I love you, call or come home-we'll work it out."
Sometimes the missing of my son is overwhelming. All I have to do is close my eyes and I am standing in the hallway at 10 Holcomb Road watching him watching the big boys at soccer in the street through the window.
The room was a cheery yellow with white trim and wood shutters with a cute yellow valance across the top. Fox's playpen was close enough to the window that he could see out but not close enough that he could tear off the opened shutters.
He was so poignant in his little blue overalls and white tee shirt, and so impatient to get out there and play with the big boys; angry that they would not look at him and somehow include him.
He was born, and the nurse let one of my arms loose so that I could hold him; he looked at me, and I looked at him, and although I do love his sister, in that moment I knew I was a goner. I love my son so much I stayed with Crusty for too many years, gobsmacked that he could be so cold toward this amazing person God in His infinite wisdom and mercy had just granted us parenthood of. I figured if Crusty would just get to know Fox...
When Fox was almost 11 Crusty got on the first of many airplanes to travel with his wonderful new defense contractor job. Fox flung himself at me, crying and distraught that his dad had gone, and I was shocked.
Because Fox's first real full sentence was "Daddy is an a$$hole!" He was about two and a half.
Losing my welcome in my son's life is the final crushing blow. Since July 2005, when I called DHS because my son's girlfriend was about to give my grandson to yet another of her junkie relatives to keep for a week (the thought of my beautiful boy's little son being in such real peril caused me to call), I've been adrift on a sea of nothingness.
Junkie idiot room mate-who cares?
Nut job co-workers, cut-throat bosses, who cares?
no reason to put up a tree, no reason to commemorate the holidays, any of them, no reason to try to stay connected to life, no reason to dance in the living room, no reason, no reason, who cares, who cares, who cares? No-one. No-one if my family doesn't.
It makes all of the good memories,
the times I thought he loved me and knew I loved him,
the times I was sure he would be a world beater and everything would be alright,
that he would:
find the right girl,
be a good father,
finish school and be a teacher or a scientist,
anything except the bitter and furious young man he is,
In a few hours, less than five of them, my son, my beloved, sorely missed, beautiful boy, will be 26 years old.
I used to sing these as lullabies:
You are so beautiful/to me.
Can't you see?
You're everything I dreamed of/you're everything I need,
you are so beautiful/to me.
Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy...