I carry your heart with me

I carry it in my heart. The e.e. cummings poem says everything perfectly. I am getting better at learning how to drive and talk to you, Otto. How to work and be with you. How to do the dishes, and lay in bed in the morning, and have you so close to me. It is not the same as your soft warm skin, but I can remember it. On some days, on days like this, I feel your peace, I feel so grateful to have met you, to have this seed planted in me that will grow more and more substantial with every day, for the rest of my life. Into a great tree. Even though you were a newborn baby when you died, you will have roots and branches and a big trunk for me. I will always have you as my son, I will always mourn you. Till the end of my days. I will always love you. And learning how to love like this is work, and it is worth it. I look at your picture and my heart aches, and I cannot tell if I want to sing for joy or pain. I cannot tell them apart. It is one big scream that wants to come out. A yell. A note. I am so glad you are with me. I am so glad you are my baby. I miss you but I have you. I am so glad you are here.