And I rested my cheek between his shoulder blades, as if to reassure myself once more that he was still there.
“No, my son. We didn’t lose them.” We’ll take them back now.
So, in the salty air of that late afternoon, I realized something I never would have thought possible after grieving for a son without a body:
Sometimes love returns.
Not as I expected.
Not without scars.
Not without truth.
But it returns.
Sometimes in the middle of the night, in an impossible plea, a trembling voice whispering from beyond the world of the dead:
“Mom… open the door. I’m cold.”
