Every year this day hits me like a ton of bricks. He wasn’t even my child. But it didn’t matter. I loved him tremendously. No, scratch that. I LOVE him. I’ve never understood why people say that. They “loved” a person, in the past tense. Because all of us who were lucky enough to love Brendon in life, love in him death. Fiercely.
We love him every day, and he is never far from our thoughts, but today… on his birthday, the feeling is overwhelming. Like a freight train, slamming into my chest. The urge to scream is too much; I want to shout from the rooftops…
“Children are not supposed to die.”
Today, Brendon would have been 12. He would probably be driving his mother crazy spending too much time with his electronics or not cleaning his room. He may have been in band, or sports, and we would have enjoyed watching him grow into a young man. He would have a favorite TV show, music, sports team. He would have been about to join the ranks of “teenager.” But, no. Cancer robbed him of all of that. Robbed all of us.
Children are not supposed to die.
We love him every day, and he is never far from our thoughts, but today… on his birthday, the feeling is overwhelming. Like a freight train, slamming into my chest. The urge to scream is too much; I want to shout from the rooftops…
“Children are not supposed to die.”
Today, Brendon would have been 12. He would probably be driving his mother crazy spending too much time with his electronics or not cleaning his room. He may have been in band, or sports, and we would have enjoyed watching him grow into a young man. He would have a favorite TV show, music, sports team. He would have been about to join the ranks of “teenager.” But, no. Cancer robbed him of all of that. Robbed all of us.
Children are not supposed to die.
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