There is a reason that there is no word for a parent that loses a child. It is not a natural phenomenon, you are not supposed to outlive your child. Much less a vibrant 17 year old son who has the world laid out in front of him on a silver platter. A young man who thought the world was his for the taking. Baseball, football, girls, one special girl in particular, Jordan. The love of his life, the young lady for whom his world spun and spun only. They were each other’s other half. They were happy doing the mundane things together. The mall, Ulta, Tractor Supply, doing their homework together, even just walks together or drives to just nowhere. They were just happy together.❤️

I never knew my 17 year was such a romantic, dropping little notes for Jordan to find. Buying her little gifts to make her happy.

I knew he was a crazy rough and tumble guy. I knew he was Chippewa Boots full of dirt, a baseball bag full of sweaty clothes, and grass stained baseball pants. A glove that literally smelled like an old horse, it was damp and sticky and sweaty, but it was molded to his hand perfectly.

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e was size 12 baseball cleats, full of dirt and grass, with insides that smelled like , well a teenage boy. No amount of professional deodorizer could fix them nor could baking soda and a myriad of essential oils. It was the funk of teenage boy feet. He was size Chippewa work boots that were never fully tied, so he always had this kind of clunky walking gait to him, with the laces tucked into the tops of the boots and his jeans tucked into his boots.

The same jeans that were so difficult to buy. Size 32×34, or if truth be told really 30×34. All legs, no waist and even less ass. Tall and skinny, he was long and lean all 6ft tall of him. Blue eyes with the longest eyelashes that u have ever seen, on a man or a woman.

Those beautiful blue eyes that either sparkled when he laughed and smiled, or got all dark and stormy when he was mad. Mad, usually at his Mom, for something he didn't want to do. Like his homework or clean his room, those dark and stormy eyes were reserved for me. Or for his coaches, when he was mad and frustrated, an alternative version of "The Game Face."

The rest of the world got to see the sparkly blue eyes, the flirty, happy, beautiful blue eyes, framed in those long dark lashes that enraptured everyone. I would give anything to see those eyes and eyelashes again in real life. Whether they were smiling or mad at me, I don't care.

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ow I am a member of the Crappiest Club that no one wants entry to. The Club reserved for Mother's who have had to bury a child before themselves. Maybe if he was doing something to cause this I would take some comfort, as minimal as it is knowing he was at fault. But there is no blame to be shared. He wasn't speeding, it was raining hard and the slopes guardrails acted like a ramp. All of that conspired to act like a slingshot to send him airborne.

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he fact that my heart is torn to shreds, a huge part is missing and I am not sure it will ever be replaced. I want him back, instead of the 200+ sympathy cards that line my mantle. I still want the car, with its loud music to pull in the driveway and the size 12 Chippewa boots to come clomping across my floor leaving mud and dirt in their wake. For now I will have to settle for the empty boots in the breezeway, and the memories I have left. For the car is gone forever, just like my blue eyed long lashed baby, leaving a hole in my shattered heart.