Would've, Could've, Should Be...Won't.

I should be excited to shower Gavin with attention and presents and balloons and laughs tomorrow.

I should be writing a post that says things like, "Wow - what a year Gavin had!" or "Can you believe that Gavin did this this year?"

I should be obsessing about what special "birthday outfit" I should have him wear to school... or wear in Mommy's photo shoot.  Or - whether we should play "hooky" and have a "Love Bomb" day instead.

But I won't be doing any of those things.

I feel like screaming into the sky - YOU TOOK HIM TOO SOON!!!!!!!  He could have accomplished so much more.

He would have continued to have a great life.  Gavin never wanted for anything - we made sure of it.

I feel like screaming into the sky - YOU TOOK BRIAN'S BEST BUDDY!!!!!!  

My heart is torn in two daily for our sweet little boy who every night still tugs on that invisible string before going to sleep in Gavin's bed.

I can only imagine that their relationship would have changed and developed as Gavin grew.

I feel like screaming into the sky - YOU TOOK MY FIRST BORN CHILD!!!!!!  MY SON!!!!  MY BABY!!!!!

But screaming into the sky only releases my rage - much like throwing boxes in the garage.  Gavin isn't in the sky.  We believe - and teach the kids - that Heaven is everywhere.  Everywhere we are, he is.  Anytime we want to talk to him, he will be right there.  The idea of Heaven being way up in the sky is too far for me.  I can only imagine how far it feels for a child.

But even though Heaven is everywhere - it isn't close enough for me.  I long to hold him, kiss him, hold his hand and walk beside him.  

The worst things you can say to a grieving parent are "platitudes" like "He's doing everything and more in Heaven!" or "He's better off with God!" or "You'll see him again!"  Coincidentally, they are often some of the best things you can say, too.  But because you never really know where the heart of a grieving parent is at any particular moment... the best things you can say are:

"I'm so, so sorry."

"I can't imagine how you feel."

"I'm so, so sorry."

Last year was a little easier because it was closer to when he was alive.  I had an idea of what he might have been doing - what kind of progress he would have made by then.  This year?  Not so much.  I'm sadly realizing that from now on Gavin will need to remain frozen in time.  To make up in my mind what he "might" be doing at 7 years old... or 14 years old... or 20 years old... it's all too depressing.  I shouldn't have to "make it up."  I should know.

But since I don't, I have this much to go on:

Gavin would've been seven tomorrow.

He could've enjoyed a great birthday weekend and I would have made sure I got tons of balloons and musical toys.

He should be here to celebrate with us.

But he won't.

I feel too far away from our first hug.

And I feel much too far away from our last.

Seven would have looked good on you.  Happy Birthday, Bugaboo.  I miss you so much.