Wednesday, March 10, 2010


...It just occurred to me that I'm going to have to make them one day.

Some day I'll have to tell Landon about Everett.

I'm not sure why that never crossed my mind before.

Maybe it's because Landon's learning how to talk, so we're asking him to try his skills out with our family members names. It felt so strange to ask him to say Everett.

Actually, saying the name Everett out loud, a few times in a row to prompt Landon, felt very strange to me, to say it and to hear it said. We don't speak his name out loud often enough to make it feel common place. Sure we think it, we type it, we write it, but we don't often hear it.

It's a strange sort of painful.

To hear what it would have sounded like to call out his name, it kills me.

I'll never call down the hall "Everett come get your boots on," like I do the other two kids. His name will never be commonly used in the day to day, it will never feel worn in or familiar.

His name, whenever said out loud, will always hurt, it will always feel like a blow to the stomach, it will always make me say "Oh!" when I hear it, "Oh, my other baby", "Oh, my lost baby", "Oh, that's right, he's not here, and never will be."

This grieving business, it's tricky. Hard to master for sure.

Try as I might, I still don't have the swing of it. And something as benign as saying his name out loud can send me reeling.

How on earth will I ever sit Landon down and tell him all about his brother, when he's old enough to understand. How will he feel when he knows his history, his deep connection to his lost brother? Will he feel strange? Sad? Confused? Grieved? Or like a piece of a puzzle fell into place?

I'm dreading it.

Good thing is, pictures are up all over the house, and we talk about him out loud from time to time. Plus our tattoos are great conversation starters, so his existence won't be a big surprise, I hope.

I'm ashamed of myself, for feeling so strange and disconnected with Everett's name, and how it sounds coming from my mouth. I'm his mother, and his name shouldn't sound foreign or alien coming from my lips, but it does.

I picked his name.

I loved his name.

I rubbed and prodded his side of my belly calling out his name trying to get him to react.

I sat over his bedside in the hospital and softly whispered his name.

I tattooed his name on my ankle.

It's branded on my heart.

So how can it sound so strange when spoken.

One of the mysteries of grief I suppose.

His name......

It used to be on the wall, and now its not.

He was supposed to be a part of our lives, in the flesh, to have and hold....

And now he's not.

And now his name, in tattoos and memorial plaques, are the only time we see it written out....

But its in our hearts always.

On our minds constantly.

In our prayers nightly.

And always on the tip of our tongues, but sometimes we just can't bring ourselves to say it out loud, and feel the depth of his goneness, because it hurts more then we have words to describe.

Everett, I miss you.

Everett, I love you.

Everett, you're on my mind 24 hours a day.

Everett, you're beautiful, and every minute of our time together was worth it.

Everett, I cherish every single memory, and every single memento I have of you.

Everett, you're the reason I believe in God, you're the reason I'll go to Heaven, because nothing on earth could keep me from a reunion with you one day.

Love Mama


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