My son’s story
Grief does not belong to only one person. It ripples through every life it touches. While my memories of that time are sharp and heavy, my children experienced it in a completely different way. My son was only five years old. This is how he remembers it.
My sister’s perspective is very different from mine. I was only five years old, so I didn’t quite understand what was going on… or even remember everything clearly. My mom has written about her first experience with grief, and I think this was the first one I can truly remember having such a deep impact on our family.
I remember it being quiet that day. The memories come and go in flashes.The things I will never forget are my mother coming to my grandmother’s home, screaming and crying, completely inconsolable. I remember the months that followed—sitting in the car and looking over at her, seeing her crying, and wanting to hug her because that was the only thing I knew how to do to comfort her.
I remember the day we visited his parents’ home after he had passed and saw more of his life… the life that would have been part of the next chapter of their relationship. The chapter where we would have met his family over dinner and been happy together. Instead, it was another eerily quiet afternoon as we walked through pieces of a life we had never gotten to see.
I don’t remember everything, but I remember walking upstairs to see his room. It felt lived in, a little untidy, and very much him, even though I didn’t know him the way my mother did. I remember seeing some of the VHS tapes he had of old movies like Air Bud—the kind of thing a five-year-old brain latches onto.
I remember the loving cats around his parents’ home. We brought his cat, Sugar, home with us. She was a beautiful Siamese cat. I remember her roaming around our house, stressed in the new environment. But she brought a lot of joy to our family, like a small piece of him had been left with us.
I still didn’t fully understand what everyone else around me was feeling. It was something I couldn’t grasp then—and in some ways, death still leaves me feeling the same way now. You never really get the answers you desperately need when you lose someone you love.
Maybe some people can accept it and say, “They’re in a better place now.” But I’m often left with the same question: Why? Why did it have to be this way?
I’m now one year older than he was when he passed. I commend him for wanting to step up and be a father to me and my sister. These days, I wish he were here so I could ask him for advice, introduce my boyfriend to him, or imagine how different my life might have been.
I don’t remember much about him. But I can still feel how happy my mother, my sister, and I were when he was part of our lives.
Lately I’ve been seeing cardinals while sitting on the patio eating breakfast or during my afternoon walks. I like to think it might be him—or my grandfather—reminding me that I’m on the right path, and that they are always watching over me.
Hearing my son speak about those moments reminds me that grief did not belong to me alone. It lived in our home, in our silence, in the quiet car rides, and in the small hearts that were trying to understand why their mother was broken. While his memories come in fragments, mine are etched into my soul.
Ebbs & Flows 