I think about you Every day sometimes multiple times a day. salo But I can only allow myself to think about you so far. It’s like—you’re at the top of a mountain in a far-off distance. Maybe as if you’re playing on a field and I’m here in the nosebleed section.
If I allow my mind to zoom in too close, it puts me in a vulnerable place. A place I’ve only visited a few times since you’ve been gone—and a place I’m only willing to go alone, with God.
This life is not easy. And this world—well, you wouldn’t even recognize it. Everything
is on fast-forward, and your mom and I are in slow motion. In three short years there have been marriages, babies, and deaths you may or may not know about. .
And only three years out, I look in the mirror and I don’t recognize myself.
I can’t fit in your clothes, so I wear your shoes. In some way, I feel connected to you when I wear them. I love that there’s still red clay and grass stains. I think about the places you took them—places you wanted to go. And I grieve the steps you’ll never get to take.
Walk a day in my shoes, they say. I never knew the meaning could be so heavy. But on a really bad day, I can slip on a pair of your Adidas—the black and white cloth ones—and I can almost fully exhale.
A week or so ago, I came home and our new dog, Deacon (you’d love him), had chewed on a pair of your shoes. A pair I often teach in. They weren’t destroyed, but they were damaged just enough that I felt it in my chest.
I realized later it wasn’t really about the shoes. It was about how easily something small could crack open the shell I’ve built around myself. So I confess for several days, I grieved a pair of shoes. And I guess I still am. I suppose I wouldn’t be writing about it if I weren’t.
Lately, I talk about you less but I think about you more.
I’ve learned how to carry you silently. Not because the weight is lighter, but because I’m more aware of where it spills. I’ve started to wonder where grief is welcome and where it makes people uncomfortable.
Some thoughts are easier to keep at a distance.
So I stand here in the nosebleeds staring up at you from my valley. . . screaming "You. Still. Matter."
And your name echoes in my head.
Corban.
Corban.
Corban.
---CorbansDad
“Your way was through the sea, your path through the great waters; yet your footprints were unseen.” Psalm 77:19
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To learn more about me visit www.chesterg.com or to read more of my writing, articles, published work, other blogs or thoughts visit: www.chestergwrites.com
To learn more about Corban visit www.servestrong.us (note that's .us and not .com)