I’ve had this anxiety about going. I’m excited- and that’s relative to the extreme of the other feelings I’m experiencing, but it all feels so weird to be doing, like we are forgetting something big.
And I get it. I am completely aware what is missing from this trip. He’s physically missing from everything we do, from everything we experience.
I should have already sent you a funny picture of Luca packed into our suitcase surrounded by clothes, or maybe one of him in some of his NYC attire. I should have been counting how many diapers, decided which wraps would be more breathable for us in the hot and humid NYC weather, considered bringing bottles or not, and been anticipating his first of many flights.
Instead I’m up, lump in my throat. Getting ready to light the candles and incense at his altar. I fold and pack my little pile of clothes while G sleeps so peacefully. The house is silent.
Then it starts. How did we end up in this house? Why are we here? What are we doing? This isn’t where we thought we would ever be. Our family was supposed to get bigger. What the fuck are we doing? How will life ever feel really good again? What happened? Why Luca? Why us? Why our family?
And the tears flow. Just like they do everyday, a daily cleanse, my grief medicine.
So I go to look at his pictures, to stare at his beauty one last time before we leave on our first family vacation as the new us.