When the Heavens Weep: Embracing Grief
October 24th, 2024
Today, Orion, you would have been three months old. I thought I’d be celebrating your milestones, your first smiles, the sound of your coos and laughter, your tiny fingers wrapping around mine. Instead, I’m left counting days without you, 86 days of carrying a love so vast it aches. Tonight, that ache feels sharper than ever, a reminder of the life we should have shared and the dreams that will forever remain just dreams.
As evening settled, your dad brought in an envelope he’d found in the mailbox, your death certificate. I held it tightly, still unopened, as if keeping it sealed could somehow hold back the finality inside. Just a piece of paper, yet unbearably heavy with the reality I face every day. How could any words on this paper capture you, my beautiful boy, or the boundless love that fills every part of me?
Almost as if the heavens shared in my heartbreak, a storm descended, sudden, powerful, and raging with an untold sadness. I waited until it was safe enough to step outside, and when I did, the world felt alive and electric around me. Dark clouds pressed down from above, and rain fell in torrents, each drop hitting the ground with a force that matched the tears I’ve swallowed back for so long, droplets ricocheting onto me as if carrying pieces of my sorrow. Lightning sliced through the darkness, illuminating the wild beauty of the storm, mirroring the anguish roiling within me. Thunder rolled through the sky, echoing the weight of the grief that has woven itself into every breath. The storm’s fierce intensity felt like a release I couldn’t find within myself, a voice for the silent agony I carry, for the unspoken cries of a mother’s love left unfulfilled. And in that storm’s fury, I felt closer to you somehow, as if each rumble of thunder, each flicker of light, was carrying a piece of you back to me, if only for a moment.
As the storm began to pass and the world softened into quiet, I stepped back inside. By the back door, a tiny leaf lay on the floor, untouched, delicate, and perfect, as if placed there by the storm’s final breath. It felt like a quiet reminder, left just for me, that even after the fiercest storms, there is a trace of gentleness, something small and beautiful that endures. I picked it up and held it close, feeling as if it carried a message from you, I am still here, Mama.
This is Love. This is Healing. This is Grief.
