Because my son is in a box on my shelf, I no longer give a shit about how I appear to the outside world. I do not care that I am misunderstood. I do not care that I am offensive or seem selfish.
For once in my life I have no desire to explain myself. I want what I want out of this dense experience, and I am tired of defending that. I will attempt, here, perhaps in vain, to do so one last time.
The only difference between myself and any other woman on this planet is that I fully embrace that this is all temporary. And so, if what I desire doesn’t hurt anyone, why shouldn’t I have all these things?
Should I punish myself with the label of “bereaved”? Am I not allowed to want for something more?
Oh, but I do. I want to learn everything there is about yoga…and I think I want to speak French…and I want to read books that make me blush. I want intense friendships and experiences with like-minded people. I want to talk about science and spirit and passion.
Then in the same breath I want to laugh at mindless humor, get drunk on a bottle of expensive champagne and eat frozen pizza rolls until I pass out.
My son is gone. It wasn’t fair and it wasn’t right but it happened and I, I am still here. For reasons unknown, I am still on this bizarre plane and I choose to embrace every beautiful piece of it that I can. I encourage you to do the same.