Vacation

A couple of weeks after Oliver died, we took a big trip. We traveled to escape the oppressive quiet of the empty house and the awkwardness of trying to figure out how to be around people.

Turns out losing a child is a great way to find out which of your friends have fabulous vacation homes.

We went to Southern Florida and Northern California. It was 10 days filled with beauty and marvels of nature. The whole time, I felt like I was supposed to see him.

But I didn’t see Butterfly Oliver in the garden in Miami.

I didn’t see Everglades Oliver as we flew over the grass and through the canals.

I didn’t see Ocean Oliver in the Atlantic waves of Florida, nor did I see him in the Pacific waves crashing over rocks in Big Sur.

I didn’t see him in the sunrises or sunsets over the mountains or the oceans.

I didn’t see him in the giant redwoods or the fruiting trees.

Because he wasn’t there. He wasn’t above me or around me or inside me. One day he was a beautiful, happy, fussy, silly, sleepy, gassy, chatty, hiccuppy little boy.

Then he was a vegetable.

Then he was gone.