Wednesday morning 4.30 am, I lay awake knowing that today I will scatter my son’s ashes.
I force myself out of bed; dawn is breaking and I go out into the garden, where I laid my son’s ashes some weeks ago. Still in my pajamas, I lift my son’s ashes, in a tiny box, from under a rose bush and take them inside, placing them on the table. I stand, there, alone and dazed, not even able to think. There’s no one that I can turn to, no one that can hold me and comfort my shocked soul. Tears are falling, but I’m not crying.