Anniversary #8 is next week. That’s 2,920 days between hearing him say he would be right back until now. I wish I knew how much he was aware of what all has taken place since that day. I start to tell him things out loud but it hurts too bad to finish the sentences. 8 years and still grieving. I just can’t believe it.

I want him to know how bossy his little sister is and how she sings like him. Years younger than two of her nieces and nephews and she has been known to lecture them about showing her more respect. Sounds just like him.

His older brother just had his fourth kid. Something tells me if he knows about that already he is shaking his head. I know, bud, it’s a lot of kids and it’s a lot of curls.

I have to wonder if he has a clue his older sister has turned into a mother herself. What I would give to bargain with God to allow him a special telescopic lens to watch that boy grow up and play ball. It’s kind of in his DNA.

8 years and his dad still can’t talk about him. That’s fine but that is 8 years of having to mostly keep him tucked away inside me too. I spend most of my conversations about him with friends suspended somewhere between not wanting to talk about him because it makes them uncomfortable and wanting to talk about him too much. Both ends of the spectrum are tough.

2,920 days to forget the sound of his voice and it’s working. It becomes more faint with each anniversary. It’s one of the worst parts. Sometimes I have to pull up a picture to remind myself which side of his face had a certain freckle and then I hate myself that I don’t already know. How does a mother forget such things?

Traumatic things I see and read about don’t have the same effect they had upon me 8 years ago. Another side effect. I think it’s because the shock I went through that cold Saturday can never be matched. It is the pain of all pain. Some days I wonder if it would be worse to know your child is terminal and watching them die or for them to die suddenly like Dalton. Then I feel ashamed for wondering something like that.

The grief I will carry my entire life stands as a testament to the love I have for my children. Nothing compares to it. Nothing. I have said it many times, but how on earth would a parent endure this without faith? Knowing my son is in heaven with an almighty God is what allows me to function and thrive. I am healing through the loss because of Him. I don’t cry everyday because of Him. I know I will see Dalton again because of Him. Because of Him, I will carry part of Dalton’s spirit with me until the day we are reunited.

One year closer, DD.