The sound and the smell of the ocean, mere metres away, blow over me as I lie under the thatched roof. My tears run down.
It’s Carson’s birthday, the second since he’s been gone. He would have been 29.
The Balinese woman massaging me says nothing. Perhaps it’s professional discretion, perhaps it’s because she has very little English.
Perhaps it’s because, asides from the moisture on my face, there is no sign that I am crying. I make no sounds. My breath is even, my face smooth. I imagine her firm touch releasing some of the sorrow that has imbedded itself in my muscles.
My grief is there, but I am no longer grieving. It is a noun, not a verb.
The regrets and what-ifs have run their course, the questions are either answered or accepted as unanswerable. There are no more revelations, from an old co-worker’s conversation or something found in a drawer. The first year’s events have all passed, and the second’s don’t seem to have much impact. I am in Bali, and unlike in previous new places, I do not think about how much Carson would have liked it, nor regret that he will never see it. I can’t picture him here.
I think about my son many times every day, still. Although sometimes it is sad, the grief is quiet, and as often the thoughts are happy memories, or simply neutral remembrances.
I will build no memorial to him. I will not post to wish him a happy heavenly birthday, or share the memories that come up in photos or on Facebook. This may be my last blog post about his death and my path through sorrow.
He will be quietly remembered when I return home, with a birthday dinner with his sister. I will hang an ornament on my Christmas tree. We will reminisce at family gatherings.
I don’t know if Carson’s path is ended, or continues in some way I cannot imagine. I only know that ours are no longer intertwined.
I cherish more deeply the people still in my life, and go on with my brave travels.
Brave Travels 