When bereaved parents speak of the hole in their hearts, they are referring to the emptiness that exists, not within physical space, but within emotional space. It is a rending, a tearing, a vacancy that contains pain and sadness.
Perhaps there is a way to expand the metaphor. When the death of a child occurs, the hole is a devastating wound that will never completely heal. As time passes, the sharp edges begin to blend together, and after years, the hole becomes something with a smooth perimeter, perhaps almost symmetrical. Eventually, we begin to see that painful wound as less painful, although just as large, and a permanent property of our own hearts.
I have two such holes in my heart. The second is no smaller than the first, and no less painful, but when it tore a spot away, I knew that it would be there, painful and sad, large and vacant. The two holes in my heart do not share a space, yet they can be perceived close to one another, and tears for one demand tears for the other. I am not sad about the two holes together, but I am as sad as is humanly possible for each one.
I like to think that the holes in my heart have a transparent, protective covering over them, like the glass of a window. The holes will always be there, but from within the depths of each, I can see out. I can see the lives of my two boys and view the memories. I can see the positives they created within their own lives, and I can begin to see hope, happiness, and a vision of sharing with them again in a new future.
I am wondering what the holes in my heart contain for anyone else looking in. May I help them see some memories, and see some of my pride that the holes are not black and indefinable? Can they see the colors of love, joy and thanksgiving that I have about having my sons in at least part of my life?
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