Updated: May 3
It stings. This ache in my heart. Watching these boys fight and make up and feel all the emotions of upcoming separation. The magnitude crashing over them like a tidal wave.
Immovable. Crushing. Deafening.
The spray soaking their chests. The tide moving sand from beneath their feet, taking the solid ground out from under them.
Fear inducing unknown.
Sadness, anger, overwhelming them from all sides. Sand and silt shifting, washing out to sea. Seaweed clinging to legs, ensnaring. Unable to pry themselves from the inevitable undertow of moving and life and unwelcome change.
It hurts. This breaking of a heart. Watching your child and their friends mourn. Handling grief through feuds over toys and race cars and who's turn it is to choose the game.
They hurt because they hurt.
Their anger burns and sadness wells up from the deep recesses of their hearts. They are still figuring this thing called grief and loss out. Trying to make sense of something that can't possibly make sense. Something that adults can't comprehend out of a lifetime lived, let alone boys with only eight years experience on this planet.
We help in the only way we know how. Providing time. As much abundant time as we can for them to revel in the nearness. To play, fight, laugh and scream in person while they still can. First friends. Best friends. My heart fractures. Bruised. Swollen in sadness at their first real experience of loss.