Mark would have been eighteen today. But that will never happen. Mark is dead. I have to accept that. It still seems dreamlike that he could be so, is no longer among us. I still expect him to enter the room at odd moments, and when I catch myself, I cry.
My son my son, oh I miss you so. Your mother speaks of her dream, where you came up behind her, and hugged her, giving her the comfort of your embrace. I am so envious of her, that she has once more been able to touch you; hold your hand, and hug you. To feel you hug her back, not a little boy’s hug, but with the wide-shouldered strength of the man you had just so recently become. Oh Mark, I was so so proud of you.
Each night I go to sleep hoping that you will come to me in my dreams, that I could hold my son in my arms again, and in the dream at least, have the experience having you with me one more time..
I miss you boy. I miss your voice, your words, your smile. I miss you so.
You would have been eighteen today.
I love you son.