Earlier this month, Ron and I celebrated our 20th anniversary in Myrtle Beach. The first day we visited the ocean, I lay in the sand on top of our old comforter with the South Carolina sun beating down on me. As Ron went for a walk along the ocean, I lazily opened one eye and gazed at the now faded comforter. It had been the first one we purchased for our bed after we got married. As I observed its dulled colors, vivid images overtook me. Of Tyler, who is never far away from any of my trains of thought.
In my mind, the washed-out comforter under the baking sun turned crisp and bright, and I saw newborn Tyler snuggled next to me in that comforter. I recalled four-month-old Tyler, naked as the day he was born, chortling and kicking his legs after his bath as I tried to quickly diaper him before he peed on the comforter. And there was two-year-old Tyler, jumping up and down on our bed, the stripes on his shirt clashing with the floral pattern of the comforter.
When we redecorated, the comforter ended up in our living room. I had vision after vision of Tyler wrapped in this very comforter as the years went on. And I lay there, thinking of my son, realizing this very comforter had embraced my son his entire life.
And in the diminished colors I felt my son’s diminished presence. On this earth, his presence had been so vital. So energetic. So dazzling and brilliant. How, my soul shouted, how can he be gone? Even this comforter, faded and threadbare, is still part of my world. How can Tyler not be?
So I lay on the beach with the sounds of the surf, the seagulls, and laughing children invading my senses. Sounds of life, sounds of this world. I lay there trying to make sense of how the very universe, at least my place in it, had shifted. My own world – once a colorful place – now faded, fainter, pallid.
I am still, two years later, trying to grasp this new world with him not in it. This world which still brings me joy. The joy of my faith, my marriage, my family, my friendships, my beautiful surroundings. I feel like if I could find the words to describe the impact of his absence in this world, I could define my grief. I could help others understand why it still grips me even though I’ve had more than two years to adjust.
But the words elude me, and grief continues to steal up on me, even in moments of peace when I lazily open one eye and gaze at a now faded comforter.
