When Phillip was a small boy, he was so easy. He was an easy baby. He would do whatever I asked of him. He was helpful and he was protective of the other kids. I remember when he was five years old he made up a langauge all of his own. He named each of the kids with funny names and he could do this crazy clunking noise with his tongue like no one I know.
My heart is broken. I want to write about him and I simply cannot bring myself to do so. Everytime I start to remember his life I have a melt down. I loved this kid so much. I remember telling my husband, nothing better happen to this kid or they will have to bury me with him!
The unreal has become real. This doesn't happen to my kids. Our family is normal…we don't have people die from accidents! It just doesn't happen! This is what I used to think. I had the usual worries like most moms I suppose. I would always give the warnings of "wear your seatbelt" and "drive the speed limit".
When the police came to the door to tell us, I was slow to answer. I knew it would be a turning point. I already knew before we answered the door. Oh God, how can this be real? This can't be real, can it? Is it possible? My Phillip was burned up in a wreck and now his remains fit in a small box about the size of a flour bag? How does this work? His beautiful face, laugh and perfect head….his wonderful sense of humor…all gone from a simple error while driving.
This sucks. I hate it. I resist it and it persists. Nothing will ever be the same. I will never be the same.