In two days it will be June 9th. Eight years.
I have written something about this day since it happened.
2019: “Here I sit 400 miles from home because sitting in the house today seems torturous.”
2020: “The pain in my gut has spread to every cell of my body. I no longer scream audibly very often,a but the screaming is constant.”
2021: “Three years is way too long without my child, but unfortunately, I have thirty more to go.”
2022: “Now, after four years, it is old with a familiar putrid odor that does not subside with a shower. You cannot hide it for long.”
2023: “Grief will walk up, smirk, and spit in your eye. It does not care.”
2024: “do not expect me to have a relationship with you if you cannot talk with me about my son.”
2025: “Today is seven years of this Quiet Pain.”
I began thinking about what to write for today over a month ago. I quickly drop it. Over a week ago when I wrote last week’s post, I said to myself I have to write this one. That was the last thought about it until yesterday. I woke up and thought, “I have to write the post.” I made coffee, sat down to write and instead of this post, I wrote for the new book.
I know people say I think or talk about him too much. I have heard it from family and friends. Actually, I avoid thoughts of him often. They refuse to be ignored long.
Ignoring him is not what has been happening this last month, though. I have not been silent. I have been writing about him in a book. The boy alive lives there in a way the blog has not seen.
What follows is from the book I am writing, Still Dead, Still Here, in the chapter where he is the boy alive.
All children are special. I cannot tell you about your child. Let me tell you about mine.
“We need a parent conference immediately,” said a hand written note from Caleb’s 1st grade teacher.
In the meeting she describes his ‘unacceptable’ behavior.
“I give the kids a test and he finishes very quick. Then he climbs under the desk, on the desk, goes to the other side of the classroom. This disturbs the other children. I tell him to double check his work, sit still and wait.”
We read to Caleb every night. I noticed him trying to read with me when he was a toddler so I helped him along. He was reading at a 1st or 2nd grade level by the time he entered Kindergarten. He read The Hardy Boys series while he was in first grade. Then his absorption of information soared.
He was infatuated with dinosaurs like most six year old boys, so he learned them in and out: names, name meaning, eating habit, location, time period. He enjoyed robots, the robot wars on television, and all technology and read about them for hours. He read about space and planetary motion. So I bought him a snap bricks programmable robot and a telescope.
I did not think a pet dinosaur was appropriate.
He learned how to create command sequences to move the robot. He learned how to play chess and was playing soccer. He stargazed with me most nights. All of this was just through that summer that he turned seven.
Caleb beat me in chess before he turned eight.
Knowing that Caleb already knew everything she was teaching, I asked, “Does he get any answer wrong?”
“No”
“Do you give him an assignment, or something to do?”
“No, we’re testing, and it wouldn’t be fair to make him do more work.”
“He will sit and do anything you want, except sit still. Give him something. Sitting still is punishment to him.”
Tuesday is the 9th, eight years. Tomorrow he is still gone. Yesterday he was still here.
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