Raw

When you died nine years ago, I thought that if I could get through the first week, the first thirty days, the first year, I would only have to remember when I called the loss to me and let the grief in.

I did not expect this; to have months and months where the sadness seems impenetrable, and where reminders are everywhere.

It starts in September.  Back to school. You should be here to see our son start fifth grade. He is so much like you. He is tall, and handsome, and curious and mind-blowingly smart. He has this incredible brain that remembers details of everything, but yet can't hold onto names.

You should be here, teaching him how to build airplane models, fix cars and build things.

You should be here teaching him about birds, horses, amateur radio, opera, The Goon Show and Hungary.

You should be here reveling in him.  You should be here looking at stamps and coins, taking things apart and going on fantastic adventures.

You should be here because he doesn't even know what he's missing, but I do. 

He loves science.

He whistles.

He makes your "concentration face."

He holds his body the way you did.

He has your hands.

He loves art.

He is seriously goofy.

He has every bit of your sweet, kind and generous disposition, and your legendary appetite.

You should be here because sometimes the questions are bigger than I can find answers for.

You should be here because without you, there is no home. 

Tomorrow, we will gather where we live, and we'll remember you. We will strive to complete your son's story of your life by transplanting our memories into the spaces in his.

And we will continue the work of building new memories and moving forward through the days, weeks and months ahead. 

Always working to be less raw.

You are still missed, loved and remembered. 143-88

Paul Charles Matthes 5/27/56-11/26/06