It's a full moon at the end of July

My mother in law would always assign psychotic behavior or events to the full moon.

I happen to have a certain offspring that I think is under the same spell from the full moon that would cause her to defeatedly throw her hands up and say, "It's the full moon!" I'm fairly certain that is besides the point here.

What I'm trying to say is that it's the end of July. Every year, this deep melancholy tries to swallow me whole---and every year I'm blind sided by it. It causes me to defeatedly throw my hands up and say, "I hope it's a full moon" because, you know, then there's the scape goat.

But it's that heavy hearted, bone aching kind of distortion that has me wringing my hands and furrowing my brow, "What is this?"

And then, as if like clock work, I notice the date. And it causes me to pause and do a crooked half smile---the one that is to say, "darn it", as my hands reflexively reach up to touch my face in anticipation of the hot tears that will begin to flow. I hold my breath and just try to envision him for as long as I can.

Five years seems so far away. You know, we probably would have held him back this year. He would have been small like his brothers, and his birthday is so late in the year; I wouldn't want him to be the youngest in his class. And then I think, well, he wouldn't have been born for a couple more months, really, so of course, he wouldn't be starting school until next year, anyway.

That's right.

I see him so clearly. Lighter hair than J. Darker skin than Hugh. Our only blue eyed boy. Oftentimes his face morphs to become other little almost-five-year-old-boys that I know--- you know, the ones that didn't die. And it doesn't make me sad for a moment, but laugh about the thought process there. Because, while I know him, I don't get to squeeze those cheeks or snuggle that rascal, so I've watched the other little boys that were born around the time as him. They've all grown, and learned how to run and jump---it usually makes me cry; however, at this moment it gives me something to say, "yeah, that could be him; he could have really been here," and for a strange reason it's not sad. For this moment. Because it reminds me that he is real.

But five just seems like such a big boy. A big boy that could swim, ride a bike, write his name. And he could teach his little brother so much. But then again, his little brother wouldn't be here if he were, and how do you consolidate that.

So I don't.

I take a deep sigh.

And then my heart starts doing that heavy achey thing.




It's a week from his birthday.
And my bones always feel it before I my brain does.

And it's ok. It's like the full moon. It comes and makes us feel unrecognizable for a while, and then we are fine again.

Full moons and the end of July hurt the most. But August eventually comes. And then September.