Today marks four months since Matthew simultaneously came into this world and left the arms of his parents. His death leaves a void in our hearts that will never be filled; a scar on our souls that will never fully heal. Erin and I live through each day with the memory of his face, his smell, his weight in our arms, and a guilt over what one small thing we could have done differently to change what happened. We recall the details of that day as if we were still there in the past, experiencing it for the first time — all while the present feels like a static, shallow version of reality.
I’ve given some thought to whether people who read these entries wonder if I will ever write about something besides my dead son. After all, reading the same sad story over and over can’t be much fun. But what else in my life is of greater importance? What has more impact on my state of mind, my emotions, or my very being? Everything pales in comparison. I sometimes wonder how others continue on living their lives normally all around us — until I remember that what happened, happened to us, not them. Human sympathy is a powerful thing, but it only goes so far. One cannot expect the entire world to shift off of its axis over a single tragedy, one so small in the grand scale of the universe.
Yet for Erin and I, our entire universe is wrapped up in that one perfect little boy, and that one single, small tragedy.
“If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger.”