As the Fall Settles In

Tomorrow will mark eleven months since my 9-year-old nephew was killed when a driver left the roadway and killed Lucian on the sidewalk.

The weather outside is starting to turn more towards fall and away from summer. It's starting to be more like the weather when IT happened, that moment that divided my family into Before and After.

We have weathered our year of firsts- the first of every holiday After. The first Thanksgiving After, the first Christmas shopping After: How many times did I see something cool and think, "I'll bet Lucian would really like that." And then I would remember. Birthdays, family gatherings, vacations and celebrations- they've all come and gone and we've all been very aware that Lucian was missing; that he should have been there.

My oldest son turned 9 this year- the age that Lucian was and will always be. It didn't seem right or fair. Lucian was always supposed to be the older cousin.

There have been times in this last year when I've thought of him, of his parents and his brother and I've thought that IT didn't happen- IT couldn't have happened- and then I remember that IT did. Sometimes when I remember, it feels like all of the air has been sucked out of the room. Sometimes the tears physically hurt- they start in the center of my chest and work their way up my throat before they come spilling out of my eyes.

Mostly I have been able to think about Lucian with life and love and laughter. We have talked about him often- my children have had a need to discuss Lucian- who he was, what he liked and what he meant to them. We have bought books he loved or would have enjoyed and donated them to the library at my kids' school. We have talked about him when we've flown kites and played baseball and walked in the woods. We've talked about him when they were making contraptions out of Legos. He was important to us and we have missed him.

As the weather has begun to turn, though, I find myself transported to the day that compartmentalizes us- the one that thrust us into After. I remember the flat, lifeless sound of my mother's voice as she told me the words that couldn't be real. I remember the heartbreak in my father's voice when I talked to him later that evening. My phone wouldn't stop ringing and no one told me what I wanted to hear- that IT didn't happen. When I think about those phone calls and the sound of people whom I love so dearly in so much pain, that's when the tears come the hardest. Those phone calls have left a scar behind- a brand that hurts when you touch it.

I can't say that I'm moving on. That makes it seem like I'm leaving something behind and that's clearly not the case. I can say that I'm moving forward. I can think about him without always thinking of his death. I do not tell every stranger I meet about what happened (I was doing that for a while- I couldn't help myself.)

I may no longer think of fall as a season of rest, though. It has become a season of sorrow instead. Hopefully not forever, but at least for a little while.