He is funny. He’s smart. Considerate, thoughtful and aware, even if it is sometimes on reflection. Sometimes, he is a royal, 11 year old pain in the arse, but mostly he is Rhys.
He has been an immense source of pride and affection since then and whenever I’ve been low, directionless or plain depressed, I only have to think of him and I smile. Sometimes I weep. He makes me stop and realise that things aren’t quite in the order or priority that I thought they were. Even with two grown up daughters, whom I see little of and hear from even less (largely due to my circumstances and actions and despite my mourning that loss I am yet to learn all the lessons I should have by now. I am only beginning to understand and am becoming acutely conscious of the expanse of his being.
At every turn there is a news item advising us of an abused child, a family hit by tragedy or community shell-shocked by huge loss. Such is the frequency of these events that they are no longer guaranteed to make the front page. Though sadly, tragedy that the Morecambe’s have endured is all too prominent. We are fortunate to have our son with us, yet we still fail to protect him as we should something so precious.
Through the last couple of years, while his mother and I have been dismantling the fabric of our life – one disassembling and the other putting away the pieces – he has been through the mill. At times he has been forgotten or, at the very least, too low in the order of things. Though he manages to remain enthusiastic about the things that he enjoys he takes it upon himself to protects the ‘grown-up’s’ from themselves at times. We have squandered part of his innocence – shame on us. Shame, shame.
Now, suddenly, he is 11 years old. I grieve for the greater part of his childhood thus far that has gone sometimes unnoticed and sometimes uncelebrated. It’s dawned on me that it will never be back for us to share again. No more, my son. It’s all about you.
Happy birthday ‘Young Man’
No comments:
Post a Comment