Love Letter to Will: September 24, 2011

Will and I at the park

 

 

Saturday, September 24, 2011 (4 months, 1 day)

 

Good morning, WillBilly,

 

This morning I woke early and went and crawled into your bed.  It feels so … here I go again, bittersweet, to lie under your duvet and as I write this it occurs to me that all of my days seem to be measured by the number of “bittersweets” that it holds.  Your room is a precious time capsule; everything preserved; your things placed just as you’d put them on May 22nd.  Of course, I picked up the towel that you’d “placed” on your floor along with the dirty t-shirt and shorts that to this day I still can’t throw down the laundry chute.  It’s not the right time yet and so they hang on your wall hooks; reminders of that day that started out so “ordinary”.  The only thing moving are the blades on your ceiling fan and the up and down of my chest inhaling and exhaling and the tears that are spilling from heart, through my eyes and down my cheeks.  I ran my hand through my hair and thought that your hair would have felt the same.  And I wish more than anything that you were laying beside me and that we were reading a book together, taking turns reading out loud – you a page, me a page, (you looking ahead to see who’d get the shorter pages) like we used to.

 

Your bedroom, one of your favourite places (and still one of mine), is sacred to us, just as it was for you.  It is a room full of WILL, full of you in every nook and cranny from the posters and pictures on the wall to all your things on the desk and makeshift night table, to your favourite stuffies lined up on top of your armoire, to the shelving unit that holds your sticker box, your ski helmet, your gloves and mitts, your ribbons, and trophies and medals and on and on.  Your book report, completed the day of your accident still sits on your desk ready to have been handed in on the Tuesday after the long weekend.  Those reminders are sad and difficult to look at and at the same time they remind me of the fragility of life, of how you can be here one minute and gone the next.  It reminds me that life should be enjoyed moment to moment and so I try.  But for now I cannot get out of your bed, I cannot put one foot in front of the other and so now I am sitting, propped up on your four fluffy pillows with my laptop on my lap writing you this letter; my daily love letter; my time with you.  The chores I had planned, the yard work, the laundry, all can wait.  … For right now I will live in this moment with you.

 

I miss you Will.  More than anything and everything.  And, so let’s just sit for a while longer, here in your bed… just you and me.

 

Love you like a bus,

 

Momxo

Comments

  1. Joni, and but again cannot read without a zillion tears! You truly do have a way with words and just know he can hear you and read your thoughts. My big sister… you are just so awesome and I love you so much!

    • Hey kath, thanks for your words. Sorry to make you cry. Will is part of me and my very being has always centered around being his mom. I guess it’s part of what being a mom is. It is true there is no bond like that of mother to child and because his existence on this earth could not have happened without Murray and I, I think that as a mom yourself you can understand the pain of how much I miss him. Every day is a struggle but somehow I must endure so amongst my tears I must try and find snippets of joy in whatever way possible. Writing Will a letter each day is sacredly my time with him. Just me and my boy. Sad, yes, but joyful too. Hard to explain…. Hug Court and Cam and then hug them again for me. Love you back!

  2. Joni, I arrive at Will’s site from time to time mostly to read your letters. My way of checking in on you guys, I guess. You are a beautiful and eloquent writer and I so appreciate that you are willing to share your journey. I too are reminded, through your loss, that life and family are indeed precious. Thank-you. Lisa

  3. Dara-Lee says:

    Oh Joni,

    Whenever I see you around town, at the post office, walking…I’m tongue-tied and probably end us saying the most inane things. It’s only because you are living my very worst fear and I have no words to express my deep sense of sorrow. I didn’t know Will while he was here, but since his passing, in some strange way, he has come alive for me…every time I see you or see someone wearing a ‘willpower’ bracelet, I am reminded of him – the pictures of him from his memorial, the video of him that gave me a taste of his incredible energy… But it is this website and your letters that really bring him to life and I truly believe that he is with you every day particularly in those quiet moments when you write your letters to him/with him. Thank you so much for sharing these heartbreaking yet incredibly beautiful letters.

    xoxo
    Dara-Lee Snow

    • Thank you for your words, Dara. It is a difficult reality and I fully understand how hard it is to know what to say. I, too, have been in that situation with knowing someone suffering the same loss. Now that I am walking in these shoes, it is nice to know that people think of us. It helps. So, please don’t be afraid… even if you have no words, hugs are always welcome. And if I cry, that’s ok. You cannot make me sadder. I tell many friends that I am always crying on the inside and when the tears fall on the outside it just means my heart needs to empty itself, to make itself lighter somehow. Thank you again for your comment; it means so much. Joni

  4. Oh my friend the tears are still falling over here too, just when I think that they won’t any more they do. Your words so express your incredible love for that little blue eyed boy that is so missed. We are talking a lot about Will right now and about how much we miss him and a lot of remember when…. We send our biggest hugs from our house to yours.
    LULAB,
    Mary

    • Thank you, Mary. Tears are necessary and good, they say. If that is true, then I am super good. Thanks for your hugs, they mean so much. LULAB and back!

  5. Beautiful words Joni.
    Not having any children of my own, I could never profess to know the heartache that you live with everyday. But let me just say that the depth of the love you have for your son comes through loud and clear!
    Be well.
    Jo

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