“You need to put it out of your mind. That’s what I did when my mother was murdered.”
“You didn’t carry your mother in your womb. She wasn’t your child. You don’t know what it’s like to lose a child.
“I think I have P.T.S.D. because I watched his body eaten alive…. I’ll be quiet now.”
I no longer engaged in conversation with him. I know, now, that I cannot talk with him about my constant sorrow.
I invited a neighbor over who lost her daughter 4 or 5 years ago to lung cancer. Her daughter was considerably older than my son. Her daughter left behind a husband and grown children, unlike my son who left behind a 2 and 4 year old.
My neighbor was not a source of consolation. Even after all these years, our conversation brought her to tears.
I’m learning that this realm of sorrow is a lonely place.