It's Hallowe'en, my least favourite holiday.  At 4:57 pm I am still trying to muster the courage I will need to go to the door when the doorbell rings.  We will only have a few children coming around because we are a bit out of the way.  That's a good thing though, especially this year.  Today is Sunday, so it was church this morning.  I don't play as well as I did.  I'm not particularily aware of my mind wandering but my hands feel a bit like Tin Man's must have...not achey, just uncooperative.  I would step down but there is no one to take my place.  The sense of calm I used to get when I played isn't there right now.  I believe what I need more than playing at church is the meditative time.  Sometimes I long just to sit in a pew by myself with my eyes closed. 

When I got home from church today we drove out to the lake for lunch.  Tourist season is over now and the beach and walk around the sandspit were empty.  But it's the village the kids grew up in, at least until they were high school age.  The lake, surrounded by mountains speckled with the golds of the deciduous trees, reminded me so much of the happy days when everyone was safe and under my wing.  Of course, in reality, not all the days were good.  Many were tough as I struggled with my own mood issues.  But we were together; we were safe; we were a family.  And even though logically I know those days can never come back, emotionally I scream out for them.  I found myself wondering today if my son had not been cremated would he one day just come back.  The urn on the mantle is a harsh reality of his leaving, yet at the same time, the urn on the mantle keeps him with me every day. 

So, how to continue to cope. I have to be honest here and say that I am taking medications prescribed by my doctor. They keep me sane, keep me from doing something foolish, keep me from saying words I will regret speaking.  There will come a time when I can take less (perhaps) but for now they help.  Over the summer months I played in the little garden area of our townhouse.  The flowers were pretty and my daily trips across the river to the little greenhouse about five miles away got me out. 

I've just deleted an entire paragraph about things I do to kill time, to make the days tolerable.  But really, who cares.  The fact remains that I am just doing whatever it takes to get through. Days when I am determined to make progress invariably go sideways.  Why the rush to move on?  I don't want to move on.  That's not what it is.  There is an expectation from people that now, after eight months, it's time to be getting on with my life.  If I live another forty years, I won't get on with my life.  I am afraid that Michael, from wherever he is, will think I have forgotten him and I will never do that. 

It just came to me, that 30 years ago tonight, we moved into our house in the village on the lake, when Michael was 23 months old and we were expecting our second child.  How can thirty years have passed so quickly and how can this have happened to our beautiful child?  Did we take him out that Hallowe'en?  My husband might have taken him into his mom's.  I can't remember at all.  I do remember that it was a wet, cold night. 

Michael's candle is burning and I am just waiting for the doorbell to stop ringing.  I need to cry tonight.  That may sound odd but I do really need to weep for my lost boy.  I will find some music to listen to and perhaps post to Michael's memory page.  This isn't a very inspiring page at all is it?  But it's the way things are today.