But it isn’t the sort of anniversary I look forward to each year, not the kind where I wonder if hubby will ever bring home that blue Tiffany box or the one Marilyn sang was a girl’s best friend, so long ago, not that I ever cared for those things anyway. Sure, diamonds are beautiful, and you could probably get a loan based on something you owned from Tiffany.
However, I lost something 19 years ago that cannot be replaced, not by trinkets, nor by wishes… My older son, James, was on his way home on his bicycle when he was hit and killed by a drunk driver. And it left me more angry than I ever knew I could be. It wasn’t fair! My 21 year old missionary-to-be, blonde-haired, blue-eyed, almost picture of perfect health (or so we thought), was gone in the blink of an eye.
To say I was devastated was a grossly put understatement. His brother had been killed just four years before, also by a drunk driver. I was broken…stripped bare. I had nothing left.
They say time heals all wounds. I say it doesn’t. It merely lessens the time between bouts of grief. Still, a healing of sorts does occur. A softening of the heart as we reach out to the others in the room who have suffered as we have. A sisterhood of broken dreams develops between those of us who will never become grandmothers, those of us who have buried our sons too soon.
And then we learn that there is a sunrise. That grandchildren come in all sizes and in many different ways and means. That hope shines when we can show our sisters that, though it is the greatest of all pain, we will survive, and maybe thrive in the names of our boys and girls.
Still, tonight, I miss my boy…