This is my 2nd Christmas without Connor, but in all reality it feels like my first. Last year I was numb, nothing felt real, I was still thinking it was a really bad dream and he would walk through the door at any moment. That his loud car would come into the driveway and his clunky chips would come across the kitchen floor, leaving dirt and mud in their wake. In the words of a 3 year old “when is Scotty gonna stop being dead, so we can play? ” I still wish for all that, but the reality of it is long gone.
This is the second year we are spending Christmas at my parents in Connecticut. Something that we haven’t done since Kyle was under a year old. Christmas was always a huge event at our house, with presents piled so high that you could barely see the tree. Switching up traditions is the way for me to heal, and not to dwell on what should have been and the way things should be.
Sometimes the bandaid of grief holds tight, and other times it gets wet and slides off. Those are the easy times, the times that something catches me off guard and it gets ripped off and it bleeds, those are the worst, because time doesn’t heal all wounds.