Tuesday, August 11, 2009
We miss Pablo.
Jo Ann and I are aching deeply here in New Hampshire. The last time we were here, it was for Peter and Brie's wedding in 2006. Pablo turned three that week. It was a magical time.
The photos of Pablo at the front of the church at his funeral were all taken here. The coffee shop reminds us of Pablo. The little village handmade toy store reminds us of Pablo. The lake, and our assumption that the next time we came here Pablo would be swimming in it, reminds us of Pablo.
Everything, everywhere shines a light on Pablo and the pain in our bodies and hearts over how much we miss him.
On my ride around the lake today, I talked to Pablo. The whole time. For 100 kilometers. Every big hill I climbed I told Pablo what he always told me: we love climbing up a big hill, because we get to go really fast down the other side. I said out loud everything I would say to Pablo if he were cruising behind me on his connect bike.
I can tell you that I talked to Pablo. I can't tell you that it made me feel any better.
When I returned home, I looked through every single Pablo photo on Jo Ann's iPhone. It's as if Pablo was a dream, or a myth. The precise place where we stand in the process of mourning is a confusing, cruel one. I need to look at photos and videos of my son to remember what he was like. And to be sure his life and his presence with us wasn't all just a dream. After all we've been through raising our son, and shepherding him to his death, my mind plays this terrible trick on me, and makes me look at photos to subtitle my own memories.
If Pablo was a dream, he was a great one. But I know he wasn't just a dream. He was the best thing we could ever imagine coming into our lives. A real person. With real energy and love and curiosity and a smile and a laugh and a whisper that woke up the person he was trying to let sleep in the mornings and a sense of humor wider than the lake that makes us miss him furiously.
We miss you Pablo. We love you Pablo. We told you it was OK to go. We told you we'd be OK. Today, I'm not sure what that meant. But we are here, loving you, still....
at 3:43:00 PM