“How often will the vast emptiness astonish me like a complete novelty, and make me say, ‘I never realized my loss until this moment?'” C. S. Lewis A Grief Observed
Well, I crafted what I thought was a decent post about this being the 30th anniversary of my son Malcolm’s death and about how similar this day is to that day, weather wise, thirty years ago. And about all these plans I had for today.
And how instead I spent the afternoon in bed. And that I knew the moms in my group would understand. And so on.
But guess what?
My post that I thought I published disappeared. Sigh. Maybe that’s a sign.
It’s certainly symbolic. Writing, stuff, and people vanish. I’ve been thinking about that today.
What I wrote over on our fb page survived.
I guess I’ll just leave it at that.
Today is the 30th anniversary of my son Malcolm’s death and last month I turned 60. Half my life ago he died. I have just reread the chapters about his death in my memoir, Losing Malcolm: “Post Op,” “Curtains,” and “Shock.”
I don’t think I’ve read these since the book was published in 2001. Maybe I couldn’t–until now. Part of me feels like it’s all happening again, right now.
During Malcolm’s short life, and when he was at home for two weeks, I waltzed around the house with him in my arms. At his memorial service, we wanted the organist to play what had become for us a signature piece of music: Valse Triste, by Sibelius. We couldn’t find an arrangement for organ.
In memory of our boy: Valse Triste