I get the f.ucking
breath knocked out of me whenever I'm out in public and
see a little boy your height and size with your pale blond
hair. It happens surprisingly often, too often for my
liking. My heartbeat pounds wildly and I can't focus on
anything else in my surroundings until the child turns
around and I get a look at his face and ascertain that
it's not you. I think a new fissure appears in my
fragile heart with every occurrence of this.
I don't know what the hell I would do if
it was you. Run to you sobbing, probably. But that
would startle you and alarm your mother, who never got a
chance to know me and how much you, her son, meant to me.
You likely wouldn't even remember me, and would burst
into tears, but not for the same reason as me. And that
would hurt me as much as the pain of losing you
unexpectedly has.
Still, I hope endlessly for this chance
encounter, and I hope by some miracle you will actually
recognize me and greet me with the same angelic smile and
light gentle kiss you used to, that warmed me to my very
core. I want to believe that this small town's
boundaries will eventually implode and nudge you back into
my arms, if only for one more brief time. I want to believe
that even if, against my fervent wishes, it never does, you
will forever feel how much I love and care and pray for
you. You were the purest thing ever to enter my life, and I
will hold onto that blessing in a knuckle-whitening grip
until the end of my days.