A few days from today will be the anniversary of our son's death. He had such a short life, just seventeen and a half years, but it was full of friends, experiences, and love. We shall always be grateful for him because he was truly a gift.
The anniversary will be 22 years. For many people whose children have died more recently, it may seem impossible to carry grief for such a long time. It doesn't seem very long at all, but I'm not so sure that the term "grief" fits.
We clearly remember the pain and misery of those first few years (notice I did not say "days") after his death. We remember it vividly, but we no longer feel the excruciating pain. Some people have compared it to the loss of a limb: we remember the pain and the absence, but we have learned to adapt and go on with our lives in a productive way. We are not totally healed, we are no longer whole, but we do not have pain or intense sadness. We are bereft parents, but not actually grieving parents.
We regret the short life our son had. It doesn't seem fair to him or to us. He has now been gone for a longer length of time than he lived. For those of us who believe in Eternity, we have to admit that in the vast, infinite space of eternal time, even 100 years is a short time. Compare it to the time it takes to blink our eyes. Within the expanse of daily time that our eyes are open, a blink, whether it's protective, leisurely, or reflexive, is still a short time. Our son's life was like the blink of an eternal eye, but my life is also a blink of eternal time, as is anyone's life who lived 100 years or more.
Our son's life continues to have meaning as long as anyone who knew him lives and remembers. He will, at least in a mystical way, go on. Knowing that, we also know that in our own consciousness, he will outlive us.
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