Your birthday is next week. You turn 22. And I don't know if I'm supposed to get you a present. Or a card. Or take flowers to your grave. Do I sing you happy birthday? Do I leave you a voicemail or write on your Facebook page? Because I can't give you a hug or a high five or birthday spankings. I can't watch you open presents or eat birthday cake. I can't buy you lunch. I can't even see you. Forever. I can't even see you forever. And I drive in my car everyday and torture myself by listening to sad songs. Or your favorite songs. Just so i can feel you some how. I cry. I cry so much. Because I love you so much. And I miss you so much. And I need you so much. We all do.
It has been just over three months since we lost you. And it feels like an eternity. The days are longer. The skies more grey. And so many things remind me of you. For which I'm thankful and resentfull at the same time.
It took me three months to get enough courage to go to your grave. Three months. And I will admit that the moment I turned my car into the cemetery I cried as hard and as loud and as long as I did back on March 9. I just laid in the grass, nearly hyperventilating, my emotions had taken over me so strongly. I haven't been back since then either. It doesn't feel beautiful or peaceful or a place of mourning. It felt terrifying and real. And I know it's real. I still don't want it to be. I wish there was still a chance. For a miracle. For anything. But I know there's not. It's really forever.
One night I was thinking about how one day I will have my own kids. Kids who will never know you. Never know their uncle Jason. And I see uncle Randy now, more often than ever before and he reminds me so much of you that it stings sometimes. Your voice is the same. You ask the same kinds of questions and get excited the same way. And he is so cute with maddie. I bet you would have been such a great dad, just like he is.
I love you. Be with me always.
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