In 2021, I wrote as a man imprisoned by Fate—angry, hollowed out, and still fighting the terrible finality of death. I believed my heart had hardened. I know now that it had not hardened. It had shattered beneath the weight of a love that suddenly had nowhere to go.
Aaron was only nineteen months old. He should have had a lifetime. He should have known scraped knees, first days of school, birthdays, triumphs, failures, laughter, love, and the man he might have become. Instead, time stopped for him while demanding that I continue without him. That is the cruelty of grief: the world keeps moving when yours has ended. Morning comes. People laugh. Children grow. Years pass. Yet a part of you remains trapped in that single unbearable moment, still pleading for one more breath, one more heartbeat, one more chance to say goodbye.
Aaron’s physical life ended, but my relationship with him did not. It could no longer exist through the warmth of his body in my arms, the sound of his voice, or the life we should have shared. It was forced to take another form—one carried through memory, dreams, faith, and the unalterable truth that I remain his father.
These are not refusals to accept his death. They are the ways our bond survives it. The purpose of grief is not to detach from Aaron or leave him behind. It is to transform my relationship with him—to find a place for his continued presence within a life that must somehow continue without his physical presence. Love and devastation now exist together within me. They are opposites I must hold at the same time. The devastation does not diminish the love, and the love does not erase the devastation. Neither cancels the other. Together, they bear witness to the depth of what was lost.I no longer believe that healing means becoming whole again. Some losses become part of the architecture of our souls. We do not leave them behind. We build our lives around the empty space and learn to carry both the agony of their absence and the privilege of having known them. Love does not make the burden lighter. It makes us strong enough to bear it.
Tomorrow, I will face another anniversary of the day Aaron left this world for his heavenly home. I will grieve the little boy I lost, the years he never lived, and every memory we were never allowed to make. But I will also speak his name. I will remember his life. I will insist that he mattered then, that he matters now, and that he will matter for as long as I draw breath.
I am still his father. He is still my son. He still matters. He always will.
By Shaun Sima
https://chef-pocket.com/aboutme
