Sometimes, when I least expect it, when my mind is not willfully armed against the treacherous onslaught of memories, I suddenly see my boys. Out of nowhere, a series of pictures flashes in my mind’s eye: my boys’ bright-eyed, smiling faces are always upturned, open and guileless, as only children’s faces can be.
It wrenches my heart and leaves me weak, gasping for breath. They all say it will get better. The pain and the longing? It will fade. The aching desire to reach out and hug them as tight as I can? It will pass, they say. The yearning to smell their warm necks, to hear their laughter? That too will subside.
Well, they all lie. It’s getting close to a year now, and it still hurts the same, every time.