closing the book

Closing the book The tears are streaming down my face, and I’m still not breathing quiet right. You know, how you’re hurting emotionally and you just don’t breathe, instead you hold your breath... I don’t know, maybe be it’s the subconscious mind, trying to make me pass out, so I wouldn’t hurt so much. I don’t know if I can even put it into words, because the thoughts aren’t ‘tangible’. It’s just feelings. An invisible, yet heavy feeling, is sitting on my chest, my heart, messing with the wires in my mind. Why do I do this to myself? When will I learn it just is not worth it? The bitter part of the bitter-sweet is just too much. It’s too bitter, and I can’t get that taste out of my mouth. I was working on the computer at home, and just perusing the folders on my desktop. I really need to work on budgeting and paying bills, and I knew better. But I clicked on the folder that has the name of my son. I haven’t been in that folder for a long time, didn’t remember what all was in there. I still don’t remember what everything is, but it’s mostly the communications I’ve sent over the years to my son, and to his aparents. Of course all this stuff is organized so the files are listed in order of the year. File is named identified who it is for, him or his aparents. I have copies of everything. A few letters have so many clip art pics pasted in, I had to save each page individually. I, knowing I should not be spending my time doing this, but I opened the letter that I sent as a response of one that was sent by his adad in 2003. I think he wrote it instead of the amom, because she was either trying to avoid me, or she was just that mad at me. And there it was. In my letter I was responding to a comment adad made in his letter many months earlier. Just a simple comment about him liking to write, and I asked what kind of stuff does he write? Does he write about funny things? (I asked this, because so far, he’s the comedian and loves to make people laugh – he does NOT get that from his natural dad!!!) I tried to read over it and ignore this twitch in my left shoulder, twitch in my left leg. I tried to resist turning my head to even look in the direction where I knew that letter from adad is. But curiosity got the best of me (as it usually does), and so I go upstairs. I walk over to the shelf that has it all. Photo albums with his name engraved on them. Pictures are in order, and all the letters I got are in protective clear plastic sleeves. Under those albums are the books of copies of the letters and cards I’ve sent to him. There are pictures of the gifts I sent (partly because I’m anal, partly because I’m forgetful and don’t want to send same gift again later) – and scraps of the wrapping paper – sometimes even strings of brightly colored ribbon. I pull the stack out, and sit on the floor in the middle of the room.I work my way toward the place where I’d find that original letter from adad.Of course I’m looking at pictures as I go. Wow, he sure has matured from a 6 year old boy to a teenager! But he still has my dark brown eyes- there is no mistaking that. There it is!!! Finally! I found the letter from adad, and here’s what he wrote, “We had a conference with his teacher last week and she said he is doing really well. He received all A’s except for a “B+” in reading. She also noticed, as we have, that he really enjoys writing. He will often sit in church and write stories.” I ponder that. I have always liked to write too. I must admit, I’ve written more in such a short amount of time, than any other period of my life. I’m thinking, that if he likes to write, maybe he’d write about himself too. Maybe there is a chance we’d be able to ‘connect’ in the future. Maybe I could give him a journal for his next birthday? I read on a little further in the letter where adad describes “He also went to Science camp this summer. He really enjoys science and science experiments. We sometimes call him the lab rat.” I barely comprehend the rest of the paragraph as my mind fades out. I have never told his afamily or him, that his natural dad is a lab rat. He’s worked in a laboratory since he got out of college. I’ve been afraid to mention ‘lab’ thing. I was afraid they would be threatened by that – to know that he has his natural dad’s traits. So, my mind is now out in this mist, and I’m looking at these pictures, and I hurt. It’s as if something is gripping me. It’s making it hard for me to breath. Unexpectedly, I hear myself groan out loud. It happens several times. He looks happy. He looks like he has a wonderful family. Does he hate me? Does he even think about me? Or is he soo happy that he doesn’t care. Has the time and distance weakened the mother/son bond on his side? I’m supposed to be at peace with all this… why am I hurting so intensely? Why does it make me stop breathing, and I find myself gulping a breath of air, but the pain – the weight – the grief feels like it’s going to crush me. “I’m sorry,” I say out loud to him. “I’m sorry, but I have to close the book. I want to look at your face, your dark brown eyes, and see your smile. Please try to understand I am not closing the book on you, my son. But it hurts so much that you are ‘there’ and not really ‘here’. I am closing it on the pain – my pain. I’m closing it, just for now, so I can function.”