The Loss That Trumps All Others

Ok.  I don't know this woman.  But she's wearing the-single-most-meaningful piece of clothing I've ever seen. 

The reason why, is that my cousin, Tyson, sketched the man's head and arms that you see on the front.  My aunt sent me my top, and in perfect "Tyson" fashion, I opened it on Valentine's Day.  My attention was immediately drawn to the tag attached to it. 

The dates probably gave you the first clue.  I'm certain the verb "was" gave the second.  That's all I had to read before the tears began pouring down my face.

What a darling.  And oh, how you are missed, sweet Ty.  Forever 19-years old.  Forever a child in my eyes.  The blonde, cuddly cousin who bunked with me at family reunions. 

The boy who made everyone smile with his sweet disposition, amazing personality, creativity, and giant heart.  A young man who had such a good, solid head on his shoulders.  A wonderful brother and friend and son and cousin and grandson and nephew.  A teenager who joined the Air Force and made his mama so very proud.  The one in the family who had everyone laughing and loving...

It's not fair.

It's not right that you're gone.  At times, I want to kick and scream that you left this earth too soon.  That your precious mother had to endure the loss of a child.  That she never got to see you live out your life, succeed in your career, fall in love, have a baby...  That she doesn't have the privilege of picking up the phone to call you and hear your voice.  That she falls asleep at night, without the security of knowing you are safe in your own home, tucked in for the evening.  That she doesn't let a second pass when she doesn't think of you and remember you and mourn you and believe with her whole heart that your short life had purpose.  That instead of making new memories with you, she remembers dates, like July 18, the day you were born.  Or dreads dates like August 28, the day you died in that horrible car crash.   

It's not fair, and it's awful.  But that's one of the reasons why I write this blog.  It's not always cherries and fresh flower blooms.  That's not life.  That's not reality.  What is reality, is that one thing your death did, Tyson, was gifted your mother to me and gift me to her.  We have an unspeakable bond, and we talk of you and we remember you and we cry for you all the time.  We believe you are an angel watching over us.  And, my God, we miss you!

For Christmas last year, your mom found the character you drew for me.  She framed it and carried it on the plane from California to Arkansas and handed it to me all wrapped up!

I was stunned when I opened it.  When did you draw this?  And why were you thinking of me?  What does it represent?  Oh, I can't wait to one day ask you these questions!

I know my aunt is not alone.  That there are other moms out there who've lost children, who've suffered what, to me, is the worst tragedy.  But the rainbow in this dark cloud, is that we still have and love each other.  We still remember you every day of our lives.  We still honor each other, and we respect the lessons you learned and lived while you were with us.  

And when I look at my own two children, the babies you have never met on this earth, I know in my heart that every second I get with them is a gift from God.  Just as you were, sweet Tyson John Saccone.