By Eileen Nittler
PROMPT — What is Love?
I woke up with a clenched jaw again. I lay quietly and told myself to relax, relax, loosen the tension along my cheeks and under my chin and along the lines of my mouth.
Relax, relax. The day started as always, with my need to consciously find a place of calm before I could get out of bed.
There was no calm place, only the cruel bodyguards of grief—anger, sorrow, confusion, hopelessness. I settled for hopelessness and got up to start the 128th day of life following the death of my son.
He was born 11 days late and died 60 years early. How fair is that?
If he had never been born, I told myself, I wouldn't hurt.
If he had never been born, I told myself, I wouldn't miss him.
And then I remember when he wanted to use firecrackers in his birthday cake instead of candles, and I smile.
I remember when he found a four leaf clover while riding his bike, when he broke his arm climbing the rose trellis, when he caught his first fish.
I remember when he gave me a jar of dirt for my birthday. "It's seven kinds of dirt from different parts of the yard," said the eight year old.
I remember the joy of his birth, the delight of his laugh and the sarcasm of his adolescence.
I hurt exactly as much as I love him. And I love him immensely, still and always. Love is being able to hold the pain with the love, bundled like a baby in my arms, for the rest of my life.
Eileen Nittler has worked as an artist model, elected official, and social worker, but greatly prefers to explore the mountains of Oregon, the mysteries of her brain, and the beauty of new people and places. Eileen writes from Eugene, OR.
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