I beat my husband to the mailbox today. He loves to get the mail. It’s his thing. Most of it is junk or bills, but I guess it’s the anticipation that he likes. But I got there first today and was reminded yet again . . .
It’s been years since our son passed away, but there is always someone out there in snail-mail land who thinks he is alive, and sends him mail. It sends a painful sensation through my body when I see his name. It’s not really his name, but his name on an envelope. An envelope implies a life. It implies that the receiver is going about the business of life, but in this case, he is not, and it hurts to be reminded.
How about you? There are all kinds of reminders. Holidays are reminders. Birthdays are reminders. Anniversaries of their death are reminders. And snail mail. There are more I am sure like running into someone you haven’t seen in ages and they ask about the kids; what they are up to. Your mind swirls. Do they know one of your children died? Do you bring it up if they don’t mention him or her? There apparently is no limit on time.
Most days, hubby gets the mail and takes care of any that comes addressed to our son. He didn’t tell me he did this for a long time. It’s nice that he does it, knowing how it hurts me. Fresh or old, reminders still hurt. Maybe mail that comes for my dead son should be stamped “Fragile, handle with care.”
Does reading this dredge up memories for you?