I'm sad today. And most days I can rise above it and thank Papa for the blessings. I can find the happy things and I can be thankful. Eucharisteo. But eucharisteo is hard. And sometimes I'm not good at it at all. I don't know why it feels like this sometimes. Like it happened yesterday. Like I'm having to accept the reality all over again. And the memories won't stop and it makes me so sad. The pain creeps in.. and it's so dark and so crippling. I had been doing so good pretending.. that I almost forgot it was there. But it never leaves, not really. It's always just under the surface. The sound of his little nickname on my lips is like a stab in the hole in my chest. My wound is achy and swollen.. and I'm not sure why. I always know it's there. It's become a part of me. A part that sometimes I resent.. but yet I wouldn't give it for the world. I need it. I miss the freshness of his sweet memories.. and I hate the lurking of the dark ones. So vivid. So clear. I loathe them.. but I need them too. Some days I just need to think on them.. allow their bitterness to pool around me. Some days when they begin flooding in, small pieces of the sweet ones begin to trickle their way through too. His wheezy chest that night the three of us took turns holding him in the recliner. Being so beyond exhaustion but wanting to dance at the sound of his heart beating so soft. The way cries had become music. The smell of his baby food mixed with cereal. His big round blue eyes.. so deep. His soft red curls and the way they felt in my fingers. How I loved the pink in his chubby cheeks. And it burns to remember his little face drained of life.. pale and cold. Thats how it works. The dark memories always stealing from the sweet ones. And how do I dwell on the good when the bad was so terrible..? And it lingers. It's always there. The hole. The never ending ache for a little boy who was supposed to call me Aunt Bethy. The one who was supposed to be a big brother to two precious little boys and a little brother to the sweetest girl I know. The one who I was supposed to take on dates and listen to his silly stories about things that happened that day and what he wanted to be when he grew up. So much pain. Aching pain. It throbs. It gnaws. It plants bitterness and anger. And sometimes I'm blinded by it's disgusting harshness. And I can't find the good. I can't make myself thank Papa.. not for this. I don't know why. I don't know why I can't scoop all four of my little angels up. I don't know why he will always be missing. I don't know why I sit wondering what he would look like if he were mine today. What would his little voice sound like? What kinds of silly things would he say? What I wouldn't give to hear his tiny giggle.. to touch his hair.. to kiss his cheeks. I long to hold him tight in my arms. Because if I could trace his face, hold his hands and count his toes.. then I could know he is real again. That he's not just a fuzzy memory in my head. I wish I could remember right. I wish the memories could be stored somewhere safe where they'd never fade. It's like bloody knuckles. Scraped-up hands and knees. I don't know how to get back up, always. I don't know if I know how to walk around all beat up. But here I am.. and days like these pass by. And the pain doesn't lessen. It just gets more bearable. You just get better at living with it. And I think that sometimes it's okay to have days that you're not so good at eucharisteo thanksgiving. I think Papa understands. And I know He's good. I know He loves me. I know it's okay. It's just that so much of life hurts..