.me.

If I don't bring up the subject of him it is not because his name is not on the tip of my tongue or running through my mind.  Always, he is always there.

If I seem to be happy and jovial it is only because I want to make you feel comfortable. You see I fear that if you were to see the real me you would feel nervous, uncomfortable…frightened.  For you would see the lost woman who lives deep in the woods, barefoot with leaves in her unkempt hair and a tattered dress that hangs in rags over bony prominences.  You would see the mother of a dead baby who holds the remains of her infant close to her chest as if her warmth might somehow warm his cold skin.  As if the pounding of her heart might restart his still one.  She walks aimlessly through shadows of the tall trees, catching occasional glimpses of other faces.  She has forgotten where she is and only vaguely remembers a different place: one that was filled with sunlight and rolling hills of wildflowers. 

So when you ask me how I am and I give you the answer you want to hear, understand that it is an act of compassion on my part.  But if you are not afraid to see, to really see, tell me you miss him too.  Tell me you miss the boy he would have become.  Tell me you remember his name.

Hold him for a moment.  Feels his weight in your arms.  Remember him and by doing so help me to remember myself.