Wounds

Went to the cottage this past weekend. It was wonderful weather, warm but not too hot, generally sunny. A much nicer May 24th weekend then us Canadians usually expect. (Usual forecast for this holiday weekend: rain...and more rain). 'The menfolk' in my family all gathered to put the dock in. My brother's girlfriend and I even helped, so at least I felt useful and productive.


However, my sadness and longing for Aidan doesn't escape me no matter where I go. I miss him all the time. It amazes me how people treat me so normally. They talk about things as if my life hasn't changed, as if I am still whole. I suppose this is good, and healthy, but sometimes I feel like screaming "Can't you see how much I'm hurting, how broken I am!!! How can you not notice!!" Right now I imagine my grief as some horrible injury, a hole punched in my chest, an arm ripped off, a leg shattered and gangrenous. I feel as though I am crippled, I have war wounds. I am slogging my way through this battle and have the trauma to prove it. Perhaps someday, my grief will become like a piece of shrapnel, deeply embedded in the skin. I will be able to feel it, move it around, probe the edges, and dicuss the injury that happened long ago. Although this injury will always cause pain, I will not bleed as easily as I do now. I will call it my 'Aidan wound'.