I can feel things shifting as the weather warms up. The bulbs are beginning to rise, the ground is getting soft, and this heart-crushing sadness begins to well up inside me for Burke. It's as if the memory of him that has been dormant all winter begins to flow like the sap inside a tree.
I stumbled across the hand print molds we made on the day he died a couple days ago. They were buried in the back of the spice cabinet, behind the sprinkles, straws and cupcake papers, and the contrast between these two things made me have to sit down for a minute. I had forgotten we stashed them there, out of sight, out of mind, waiting to find the strength to actually pour the plaster in to the small cavity left by his tiny hand.
After four years I'm still astounded at the depth and breadth of this ache.