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Last room on the left

This is such an odd time. My thoughts of Wyatt are moderated as I try to shield myself from the memories of the horrible time. I have to recall the good, only the good, not that time, that day, that walk to the hospital, the drive to Gainesville, the lying on the waiting room floor, the 23 days of clinging to life and waivering on death, and then death. Singing to my son's body in the silence of that room, down the hall, last one on the left.

It's near impossible to push it all out and time has not softened the vividness of those moments.  I want to remember the living and not the dying. It's so hard to do and some days seems impossible. Life has a way of jetting me back to the horror, even while I try to think only of the good.  Things, words, people, photos, they all bring memories that take me to him not being here and then to his dying, his accident, all he endured and all the details I don't want to recall. No human should endure what my son did, no human, no beast, no living being. But he did and I can't get it out of my mind; like a broken record those horrific days play over and over. Then, life slaps me with he's dead.  Its like an electrical current racing through me over and over again yet it doesn't kill me.

I have to wonder why it all happened.

I still wonder what I'm to do with it.

Mostly I wonder how I'll continue to live with it.
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