It was snowing when was Bear was born. It does not usually snow in November, so I knew it was him.
In some sense or other, and I cannot explain how, he was there in those perfect, fluffy droplets that fell all night, from the sky.
As a disclaimer, I am not one of those crazy mothers who suddenly sees her lost baby every time she turns her head. But beautiful, natural, weather related views somehow make me feel connected to my boy.
Yesterday, as I sat near a window the wild, orange sun caught my eye. It was peering over the trees, far off to my left, setting slowly enough so that I could watch its final, glowing descent.
He was there, somehow, in that perfect sun.
Only moments later as I walked into Regents Park, the moon, huge, full and clear dominated. As I walked, I felt compelled to look up into its simple beauty. I know Bear wasn't in that moon anymore than he sent those snowy kisses down the night he was born. Even so, these sights, they make me feel close to him, as if he is on the other side sending me messages.
I wanted to pick that moon out of the sky last night, and hug it close to my chest. Because my chest feels empty. There is a triangle that traces across one collar bone (the left) to the edge of my shoulder and then down, into a point below my ribs.
That should have been Bear's parking space. And there is something about its particular size and shape that cannot be filled by anything - or anyone - else.