I really don't care about football. I'm one of those people who watches the SuperBowl for the commercials, not the game. And last night, I had a favorite.
It wasn't Jason Momoa removing his muscles to reveal scrawny arms and a bald spot. It wasn't Ellen and Portia considering what the world was like before the internet. In fact, it wasn't one meant to make people laugh at all, but one that tugs at the heartstrings and makes you feel that curious blend of happy sorrow as you smile through your tears.
If you watched the game, you probably already know which commercial I'm talking about. An old man Googling "how to not forget," and then lovingly asking Google to remember little details about his wife, Loretta, who has clearly recently passed. This commercial probably would have choked me up regardless, but I am not exaggerating when I say it makes me sob every time I see it.
As you can imagine, this commercial hit a soft spot for me. I loved it for its accurate depiction of grief. I am terrified of forgetting details of my sweet son. Unlike Google's widower, I don't have a lifetime of memories and photos to look back on. Every memory I have is packed into those four short days, which already seem so far away.
Nevertheless, I spend my days cataloguing every single detail I can remember. I stare at his picture and try to remember every single inch of him. I think about sitting next to him before we were allowed to hold him, gazing at his face, holding his tiny hand, and softly singing "Dear Theodosia" to him. I remember anxiously waiting by his bedside at 2 AM for his temperature to rise enough for me to hold him for the first time, and then the rush of new emotion when they finally put him in my arms. I watch videos of him hiccuping and cooing in his sleep and am overwhelmed by the sweet baby noises he made.
I play these moments over and over, trying to squeeze every detail out of them. And yet...the images grow softer and softer, and begin to feel more like memories from a dream than like moments from the most important few days of my life.
At the end of the SuperBowl ad, the old man laughs and takes his dog outside. We know he is still thinking of Loretta, but instead of being bogged down by sadness, his memories have made him smile. How true this feeling is. When I remember Reed, it is sometimes tinged with sadness. I feel sad for all of the obvious reasons. But what most people don't realize is that these memories also make me sublimely happy. It's hard even for me to understand this. Sometimes I look at his picture and smile, and feel not an ounce of sorrow in my chest. I am surprised when that happens - how can I possibly feel happy in a world where my son has died? And yet...I do. Because although he is gone, and I don't get to make new memories with him, the ones I have are so very precious to me. They are so full of love and beauty and the perfection of Reed that it doesn't hurt to revisit them. In fact, it is the best comfort I have.
So if you ask me about Reed and I cry, know those tears hold a lot of joy, as well. You are not making me sad by acknowledging him, nor are you "reminding" me of this heartache. I think about him all day long, even when I am carrying on conversations about other things. When you say his name or ask me about him or tell me you thought of him, you are doing me a great kindness. It's easy for me to see that Marc and I will never truly forget him, though the images and moments we remember now may continue to fade like a well-handled photograph. Reed may not continue to be a part of our present the way we want him to be. I just don't want him to ever exist only in the past. Knowing there are people out there who think of him, even for just a moment, is a huge relief. You are helping us keep him here, in the present, even if it's not the way we once hoped.
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