Twenty-six years ago today my oldest son was born.
I've spend the last six years ignoring this day, it usually comes and goes without a tear shed, mostly because I am a coward when it comes to grief. I've learned, recently in fact, that by not dealing with it myself I have, I think, irrevocably damaged my other two kids. In not dealing with my own grief, I have not taught them how to deal with theirs. Kevin does pretty well, he is stoic when it comes to Tad, but I think he was the first (and possibly the only) one in our family to really deal with the death of his brother. Jarakah is another story, although I know she is dealing better now.
I did rather well today, ignoring it as I usually do, knowing the date, but keeping the feelings that go with it in the back of my mind, keeping the thoughts and memories stamped down and quiet. But then I told him happy birthday on Facebook, and the posts from others started showing up. Then Jari posted a picture of him, one that was taken just a week or so before he was killed.
Next month, October 25th, will be the anniversary of his death, another date I would rather not acknowledge, and it too usually passes without anything but the stamping of thoughts and memories.
I've only been to his grave three times, he is buried with my Dad, my brother, and my twin nephews who died soon after they were born from lung complications. I have always told myself there is no reason to visit, really. None of them are really there, their souls are elsewhere, there is just a box and dirt. I don't know if I'm just telling myself this to reconcile my inability to deal with death and the reality of it, or if I really believe it.
At any rate, no matter how much I try to ignore the fact that he is no longer physically in my life, he is in my heart and soul, and he always will be.