Not Getting a Handle

      Never again will I be the "happiest I've been." That's the bad news.
      But the good news is that the majority of every day (and night) is spent in memories.
      The memories that are always there are the circumstances surrounding their deaths.
      My 3 children all charmed me.
      My 2 boys pulled me into their humor and thoughts.
      We remember Jed, the oldest, would pull himself up to a piece of furniture, point to something he wanted and say, "Do!" He was able to communicate "give me water," "hand me that," "feed me" or any number of other things just by saying, "Do!"
      Jed, like his brother and sister that followed, started talking at 8 months. Jed, however, would crawl up to things. If they were things on an end table or low shelf that he shouldn't touch, my words would be "No. Pretty." After a little pointing and some checks to see if I was watching, he'd crawl away.
     One day, as he approached a small dish on my friend's end table, I said, "No. Pretty."  He said, "No. Tree!" and then he fell onto the floor in giggles. He was using his sense of humor, and the same joke continued for several weeks.
       Jay D. also had a sense of humor, but what I remember most is his use of words. One day during flu season after I took his temperature, he kept insisting on something and neither my husband nor I could figure out what he was saying. He, a little over 2,  suddenly blurted, "You two big guys just don't understand." After more questions, we finally figured out that he wanted us to give his temperature back.
       About a year after that, he informed me that he decided to learn a new "hard" word every day. By the time he was in high school, I sometimes found myself running to the dictionary to look up a word he had just used that I pretended to comprehend.
        As people do when they age, I found I really enjoyed a little nap after work. By then, Jed was in college and the other two were in high school. I would be on the sofa sound asleep and Jay D. would come up and excitedly shout "Mom!" Without fail, I would nearly jump off the couch. Then he would smirk and tell me whatever little thing was on his mind.
        For several years after he died, I would be awakened by his voice shouting "Mom!" I always found myself smiling as I went back to sleep.
        My own experience of being the mother of two children that died is that the death of the second is as heart-rending as the death of the first. The initial shock is devastating. It is just as painful, and it is just as sad. I now shed tears for two sons, not one. I consider what each son is missing that will be fulfilled by their own friends and classmates. I am a little irked with both of them that they have left the closing of our own lives entirely to their sister, without any guilt at all.
         Perhaps the first death taught me that I will always feel their presence. Perhaps I have internalized the fact that they are now mine "on demand." I can remember them and call them to my mind any time. Perhaps I fully expect either of them to come to me without request, but in my dreams and daydreams. I know they love me, just as they know I love them. I will continue, always, to be their parent.
         Still, I wish they were here breathing on earth.