After our son’s tragic death, here are some of his thoughts he put down on paper in a large, tatty notebook:
Spring is drawing near. Soon the trees will bud. Spring, I am waiting for you.
Life is difficult sometimes, but we have to find the small flashes of light to lessen the depth of the gloomy darkness which gets more profound with the ticking of a clock. And that gives us the dimension of time. Those points of light arre vague during the day, barely visible, so one may ask: ‘Is it worth living for two or three minutes a day?’
My friends are having fun; one abroad, one recently returned, all living lives. Only I am incarceerated in a crazy cage without a past, without a future.
We’ve tried to help you, my doctors claim. But, they set a trap for me. I fell into a bottomless pit that they dug for me.
They enter stealthily in the dead of night. The storm inside of me turns to fear. What do they want from a pauper? Peace, peace, peace. I pray for peace of mind.
You’re the one I can’t get out of my mind. I’ll dream of you day and night. You’re so far away and I’m so lonely and so cold and so bitter. It will be good when you lie beside me soft and innocent, pure and clever, as pure as the soul of a new-born babe.
I never thought I’d be so dependent; as dependent as an innocent lamb depending on its mother’s milk. I am dependent on the charity of good people and bad people, but to date, I haven’t met anyone who can help me. Certainly not my parents. I’ll dance on their graves.
When I discussed the last sentence; ‘I’ll dance on your graves’ with a professional, I was told that it is natural for such a sick person to blame those near and dear to him. But, it took years before I could get rid of the sound of my son’s voice saying; I’ll dance on your graves. It reverberated ….
