The First Holiday

 


A year ago I had them together. The twin blonde heads that for so many years bent together over a newfound wonder, bobbed side-by-side in a shopping cart, knocked against each other as only siblings can and then looked out for each other.  A year ago they talked and laughed together, and then I never saw them together again. 

Thanksgiving was the same as ever: Grandma's golden bird and fluffy mashed potatoes. The steamed carrots the grandkids like - the ones Ryan once ate until he started turning orange on a diet we hoped would help him heal. The same dog with silky ears that grounded him when he could stand to be with us. The same two cats that kept him company when the people were too much for him as the dog was for them and they all retreated to the back room. 

I knew he wasn't well, but I didn't know how to give him the help he claimed he didn't need, and I didn't know how urgently he needed it. 

Ryan was still here a year ago, still laughing, still smiling, still making the occasional witty comment. 

This year he wasn't. If anyone noticed, they didn't say it to me. I didn't say it either. I just blinked back the tears and put one foot in front of the other to get through the day. Then I came home and in the quiet of my own bed, sobbed as I haven't sobbed in months. I cried for the child I've lost and for all the holidays that ever were and that will never be the same again.  

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