I’m Here

My son told me he hates living with me, that he wants me to “just go away.” He stopped short of informing me that he wished that it was me who was dead instead of his mom, which has spilled from his trembling lips only once in the handful of weeks since her death.

My son is nine years old. He does not mean what he says. He has an overwhelming amount of sadness crushing him every night as he is faced with laying alone in his room, a general frustration and confusion that a grown man would find debilitating searching for words to express. He grits his teeth and growls and throws himself against the pillows in his bed, flailing away from my hand as I try to reach out to touch him, to comfort him. He goes silent, staring blankly at the spot where his bed meets the wall. “Dad...” He says, a furtive request, a pleading confusion contained in the simple utterance. Heartbreaking and thin, a cracking child’s tone, “Dad…” – he doesn’t have the language to express his confusion, can’t voice his frustration any more concretely than simply uttering “Dad.”

I try to comfort him, I lie by his side and hold him, accepting that he pulls away instinctively, expressing his general anger by focusing it on being upset with me, punishing me, not accepting my comfort. I pull him close any way, forcing him to loosen, to uncoil and breath as I hold him, my hand on his chest, feeling his heartbeat steadily beneath the quiet sobs.

None of this is okay. I comfort myself in the knowledge that everyone grieves in their own way, according to their own timeline, that a nine year old boy has no idea why he does what he does, has no control of his thoughts, still lives in the little-kid world that exists only in the moment, even as his brain is developing the skills to connect him to the rest of his world more concretely. That right now he is forming memories and emotional impressions that will last with him his entire life. I hold him until his breathing returns to normal, until attempting to remove my arm results in a clutching embrace, a whispered “no,” and I settle in closer to him, kissing him behind his ear.

“I’m here, Dante. I’m here.”