In the arms of my daughter

I found this, while cleaning and organizing my files.


I’m sitting on a steel bench, looking down at a show… but it’s so familiar.  Wait, that’s me.  I’m down there…. We are playing rock band… not the video game version, but with playskool mics, acoustic guitars, and Heman & She-ra castles as drums.  There’s Justin rock’n out on the guitar and the mic.  It seems so real. OOhhh what’s happening?  There Justin and I am on his dirt bike, riding through the old (insert name here) camp grounds, my stomach flips as we jump the hills, I giggle as I hold onto his waist tighter. I haven’t been this happy in a long time, this relieved.   Now I’m walking down a hallway, through steel swinging doors, and there he is, on the autopsy table.  

My heart drops, tears are rolling down my face.  This feels so real, I’m reliving it, it’s happening right now, yet I am still sitting on the stadium benches.  My stadium self is sobbing now too, as I see a flash of pictures, toe tag, his casket, his bloated face as he lies motionless with his eyes closed.  I miss him so much.  I hadn’t realized that I’m not alone on the benches.  I’ve managed to fall over, and am now lying down on the cold, hard surface as Uncle Ted reaches around to pat my back, telling me it’s ok to cry. I’m crying harder now, so hard that I wake myself up, with tears streaming down my face, wishing I could go back to playing rock band.  Wishing I could talk to him one more time.

Edward stirs beside me.  “Did you have a bad dream?”  I mumble something, I couldn’t even tell you what, as I roll over, reassuring myself that it was just a dream.  Justin’s  been gone 19 years, this pain shouldn’t feel so fresh, so new, so raw. And yet it does.  I know I won’t be able to go back to sleep, so I get out of bed, grab a book, let my dog out of the cage, so I can hold onto someone, something and feel not so alone. I look at the clock it’s 4 am.  It’s going to be a long day.  I manage to pass 2 hours cuddling my dog, sopping up my tears, and trying to cry silently.  Finally it’s 6 o’clock and Caroline wakes up.  I sigh a bit of relief, knowing that she loves to cuddle in the morning.  She can tell something is wrong, even at the age of 5.  Correction, 5 ½.  As she nuzzles close on my lap, under the blankets,  she asks me what’s wrong.  I told her I had a bad dream about Uncle Justin.   When she asks me to tell her about it, I start crying all over again, and shake my head.  We sit in silence, holding each other, until I feel I can go on with my day.

From the beginning Justin II Rock_Band  Karate A Boy and his Bike Vacation Justin Boy_on_Bike



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