How Long has it Been?

“How long has it been?”

It was intermission at the outdoor performance of “A Comedy of Errors.” I spotted Christine by the horse paddock when I was at the concession, and it was time for us to catch up.

It had been at least 6 years, since I’d left the Valley. Maybe more, as the sports and school centred activities we’d shared had dwindled as our children grew up. We were Facebook friends so we’d kept up on respective life events, but this was our first meeting since I’d moved back to Vancouver Island.

And here it came, as Christine’s smile faded and her voice softened.

“I’m so sorry about Carson.”

“Thank you.” I waited for the rush of anguish, for the tears, but all that came was a slight, grateful warmth. I turned and introduced Scott to her, with a joke about how she already knew him through my posts.

How long has it been since my son died? So long, and not long at all. By the calendar, just over a year. Long enough that some people think I should be— well, not over it, but used to it.

Sometimes I am. Sometimes I tell a story that involves him and, if they are new acquaintances, people don’t even realize he is dead. I joke with friends and family about him. And other times it’s a knife in the gut.

I was helping my daughter clean her car a few days ago, when I realized she was shaking with sobs as she feverishly vacuumed the dog hair out of the carpet.

“Oh, honey,” I said as I wrapped my arms around her. I knew it was because she used to do this task with her brother.

“People don’t understand how much it still hurts. If I’m not crying they think I’m fine.” I cry now, too.

I tell her about my trip to the Finnish Consulate to renew my passport. It was the first time I’d been there without Carson, who was so proud of his Finnish citizenship. Uncharacteristically, I forgot my appointment, hadn’t had my picture taken, didn’t have the cash fee (even thought that was the reason we were in Vancouver) and had to speed downtown, doing everything in a frantic rush before the Honorary Consul left for the day, and her summer holidays.

I started crying as soon as I walked through the door. I cried as I filled out the form at the window, as I gave my fingerprint, my photo, the money, as I filled out the postage-paid ExpressPost envelope. I didn’t have any tissue in my purse.

And my daughter and I started laughing through the tears, at the image of me, tears and snot running down my face, with the woman on the other side of the wicket trying hard and unsuccessfully to be professional.

I thought it would be that hard to go on a zip line, to see a live Shakespeare play. Those were special things Carson and I did together. But then, walking through the trails at Whistler with Scott last month, on our way to the first zip line, it occurred to me: How long had it been?

Yes, Carson and I did zip lines together whenever possible, but the last time was probably a decade ago, and I’d been on one after that with my sister. Yes, there was a stage in middle school when Carson was obsessed with Shakespeare and we went to every performance we could find, but the last one we saw together was probably when he was 13. I’ve been to a few since, alone and with friends.

This summer, I let those things go. I zip lined and it was just the same thrill that I’ve always loved. Scott and I have seen four Shakespeare performances this summer, in Vancouver and locally, and although I remember doing that with Carson, it is just a fond memory, superseded by my current enjoyment.

Sometimes, the sorrow sandbags me. I accept it when it comes, but I don’t go looking for it. I don’t traumatize or romanticize it. I’m alive, he’s not. That’s just the way it is.

Because, after all, how long has it been?