I waited until about sunset on Mother’s Day to visit my son’s grave.  I had been strong all day for my two other children.  One lesson I have learned as a bereaved parent is that generally when you have several good days in a row, a horrible dark one is looming around the corner.  Mine came that night.  I dropped down slowly to my knees and kneeled in the damp dirt that encircled Dalton’s gravesite.  I sunk down beside the delicately arranged red, white and blue roses and wept for my baby.  I cried for the handmade Mother’s Day card he wouldn’t draw me in a hurry.  I cried because I didn’t get to hear him ask if we can leave church right after communion that Sunday.  And I cried because I didn’t have my boy to give me that awkward hug that a 13 year old boy gives his mom for Mother’s Day.  For the thousandth time, I begged God to bring him back.

I was able to move briskly through the 6th month mark since I was so busy with planning Colton’s graduation dinner.  The distraction was a blessing.  I had planned and planned for two weeks, being sure to think of every last detail possible.  Friday night I got into the shower and the tears I had kept neatly into place came with a horrible force.  I had needed the release.

Using Rubbermaid tubs, I packed up all of Dalton’s clothes today.  I hadn’t opened the drawers since the funeral home told me to pick out an outfit to bury him in.  Now my son’s things are tidily tucked into seven containers and labeled accordingly: shirts, pants, underwear, socks, belts, ties, and baseball clothes.  I felt sick to my stomach with each lid I snapped into place.  Inside those tubs are stories of my child.  His nice polo shirts and pleated pants for school, his faded t-shirts I begged him to stop wearing, his mismatched socks, the too small swim trunks he wore in Florida, the underwear he took from Colton’s drawer, and the baseball pants stained with red dirt from sliding into home plate.  Click, click.  Just like that they were closed and hauled off to our basement.  The only clothes that remain upstairs are the ones that were cut off of him the day of the accident.  I have not looked at them since the day they were given back to me.

Life hurts right now.  I feel like my pain is never going to end.  I don’t know how to act.  Do I talk about him?  It probably hurts worse to not talk about him, so I generally do.  I think it makes people uncomfortable at times, but I can’t help it.  If feels good to say his name.  It feels even better to hear someone else say his name.  Having his friends honor him means everything.  The Augusta Bulldogs won first place in the U-12 division of Dalton’s tournament and they each signed a ball for him and wore his t-shirt to school the next day.  One player, Austin Grey, even came over to our house after the tournament to give us his 1st place trophy he had earned.  Last week, 8th grade AMS girls, Erin Fitzpatrick, Bailey Pennycuff, Nataleigh Cantu, and Claire Hallmark presented our family with a special baton they made for Dalton after their relay race at the final track meet of the year.  Monday, the 8th grade class at WCS held a balloon release in Dalton’s memory.  One of Dalton’s best friend’s, Canon Nesmith, read a heartfelt tribute to DD before the launch.  All of this is appreciated more than I can say.

Tonight I ask for God’s comfort.  This is pain like no other.  I understand that many people have walked in my shoes, and many more will long after I am gone.  I ask for comfort for them as well.  I truly believe God heals the brokenhearted.  My love for Dalton spanned the course of 13+ years.  I highly doubt it if 6 months is sufficient to mend this broken heart of mine.