He’d be 26 today

3 minute read

March 2, 2024. He would be twenty-six today. Or still nine. Or three-hundred and twenty-nine.

What is time anyway?

Einstein said that time is not absolute and in fact depends on the observer.

time

I’ve used time to chronicle memories. He was born 3-2-1998 at 5:51 am. He lived for nine years. Had nine birthday parties. He wore an Indiglo Timex that stopped at 1:38.

Time—17 years now without him—has given me the space to navigate through my grief.

For years, as I was learning to live with this permanent sadness, time hardly moved, except when I was writing; then it would speed up. Now that I’m aging, more experienced with loss, time seems to be in neutral, moving neither too slow nor too fast.

For the first decade after his death, time seemed to stretch and bend and take forever. Though on and on it went, like that wasp I watched yesterday outside meandering in a weird figure-eight pattern on one section of the screened patio. For about an hour, I followed it, along with the shadow it made on the aluminum rafter, as it needled along some invisible racetrack. Winding, turning, concentrating, turning, winding, over and over again. At some point, I looked away, something else catching my eye. Then, when I looked back up, the wasp was gone, nowhere to be found.

his shadow

This is how it seems, or feels. Looking back, I’ve been meandering along some winding path, concentrating, writing, turning, looking for him, his shadow. Then looking away at something else that catches my eye. Whatever distraction I can find and focus on until time passes. Then, I have to look back and see that yes . . . he is gone, over and over again. And I’m left feeling a little lost, tired, indecisive, stuck, unable to move.

what time has given me

Though now, I can talk to him, easily, whenever, wherever. This is what time has given me: the ability to have conversations with him, a back and forth that only I can hear. Because it seems he’s here even though he’s not here.

Like when I’m asking him how he feels about a particular situation involving him, and what I should do about it.

Sam, what do you think? I feel it’s time to downsize and sell the house, but how will I leave this place, your bedroom, your bed, your desk, your bookshelves, the green carpeting and the surfboard wallpaper border that you chose? How do I leave your bedroom?

Then while out on a walk, when my shoelace comes untied and I bend down, I find a tiny feather on the sidewalk that I wouldn’t have noticed otherwise. And the conversation continues.

Mom, it’s okay. Live your life. Don’t waste time. Do what you want to do, now. The change will be good for you, and for Dad too. Let go of my bedroom stuff. You don’t have to keep holding on to it all. You don’t have to feel sad about moving, or leaving the house behind. Go and live. I’ll be with you no matter where you go. I don’t want you to stay where you are just for me. I want to see you smile, and laugh and when you’re ready, move . . .

“Time flies over us, but leaves its shadow behind.”

— Nathaniel Hawthorne

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