It's something about life that's just right.
It's that hole in the heart.
That jab to the lungs that makes it hard to breathe.
The knowledge that there will never be a family picture with him in it. Ever again.
It's that longing and wondering . . .
What would he look like?
What would he like to do?
How would his voice sound like?
What would he joke about with his three siblings?
What would it be like?
To hug him . . .
at five,
at ten,
at sixteen,
at twenty-one?
What if . . . . ?
What if he had not died?
What if the infection that crept in had not killed his compromised cancer body?
What would my life be like with him still alive and in it?
I'd never have to cry when I heard the song, "Daniel". Or sing it in his memory one cold February night.
What would it be like to never know what it feels like to light a candle in his memory?
When others hear of other children who have died and say, "I can't imagine," what would it be like to be able to say the same thing?
What would it be like to not know what it feels like to look at a grave and think, "I miss him."
To not have to write about him, but to be able to make a plate of pancakes for him?
To not know what it means to have a "Daniel Moment"?
But this is not the case.
So I join lots of moms and dads and know that I am not alone. We are the Hole in the Heart Club. And we hope no one else ever has to join us again.
Because this loss is so sad, so devastating, so unexplainable, so life-changing . . .
We never wanted to join and we certainly don't need any more members.
"I can't imagine."
We don't want you to have to know what we know.
Because it's just not right.
