My friend John's son has been gone for many, many years. He was only twenty-four when an extremely rare genetic disease took him. So you might think his parents would have had time to grieve and John tells me that it's not as bad as it was for the first few years, the first five or ten, or so.
John says that the grief still hits him at unusual times. During football games, hearing an old song on the radio. Seeing two cute little boys playing trucks together or some such on a TV sitcom. You see John and his wife lost both of their sons within a few years to the same disease, both at the same young age. Johnnie died a few years later than his big brother and there was still no treatment and he fared no better.
When I read that posting today, I realized that Jimmy was exactly one week older than my son Rob, who would be 44 this Friday. But he's not here to celebrate his birthday, either. I was luckier than John and his wife because I had Rob for almost all of his forty-three years. But the loss, confusion and pain are very raw for me. Sometimes I can talk about him without crying and other times it's like a faucet's been turned on.
What I've learned from special people like John is that the love you feel for your kids will never end no matter how long they're in your life physically. And whether it's three hours, three years or 43 years you and they are bound together and nothing can break that bond. Not time, not age, not memory. It will always be there.
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