This year, three generations filled our large oceanfront house, from my brother's inquisitive, energetic 19-month old baby to my parents - still going strong at 77 and 83 years old.
It hit me hard on our 4th day. It started on my habitual early morning walk on the beach while listening to Ingrid Michaelson's poignant version of Somewhere Over the Rainbow. Then I sat down on my sand chair and wrote a list of activities that I could just picture Josh doing:
- boogie-boarding over waves with his cousin, Greyson
- throwing the football around with cousins, Mitch and Lydia
- watching Star Trek in the in-house theatre room
- snoozing on the couch with the dogs
- playing poker
- discussing Dr. Who with Ava
- playing pool with uncle Steve and Greyson
- catching sand crabs
- in the jacuzzi with his sisters
- flirting with baby Keilani
I fell into the grief vortex, wracked with pain and sorrow, sobbing as if it happened yesterday. My attempts to describe these feelings were scribbled on the blank pages:
It is still painful - feels raw - piercing right to the depths of my heart and soul - a mother's pain...
- never ending
- emotional torture
- lazer sharp, pointed, stabbing pain - making it difficult to breathe
- fueled by guilt, regret, remorse
- a longing for life which will never be fulfilled
- a deep, profound sadness which feels bottomless
- like a boat which enjoyed calm seas and is now pummeled by waves - relentless, furious, uncaring, fierce, brutal, attacking
I was exhausted the next day - spent and drained. The rest of the vacation passed with the awareness of Josh's absence, translated into a dull ache instead of the acute pain. We saw dolphins every day which I've always taken as a sign of Josh's presence. Then on the last day, an unmistakable sign occurred right outside our deck - a huge, beautiful, full rainbow - right on the ocean.
The whole family missed you on this vacation. Thanks for letting us know you were with us.