112 months into your precious life .. 112 months gone today.
Today I’m just ignoring the fact that it also represents April Fool’s Day. I feel like I have no “foolishness” left—or what is left is buried deep.
I remember the school project these pictures are from—early Spring 2006. You were tasked with creating a homemade instrument, and we decided on a cigar box guitar. Gramps had the cigar box and the tools, so we pulled him in to help. We brought Trevor along too—your best friend for life. I still have that “guitar” upstairs, stowed away (I brought it out for a picture). And it still has a nice tone to it! One of those projects—like all your keepsakes—that were supposed to be handed back to you someday, maybe even passed down one day.
That day will never come.
I was just having this conversation with a friend a couple weeks ago—what will I do with all your things? All your memories? I’ve kept just about everything from the day you were born, and I still find myself holding onto anything connected to you. Time will tell…
Your game room looks just as it did 10 years ago. I finally brought your PS4 and VR up to the living room. It hadn’t been turned on in a few years and needed quite the update. It took me 10 years to move it, even though the thought came and went so many times. Doing things like this throws me down Alice’s rabbit hole, and I often get stuck there. Maybe that’s why I stopped playing in the game room—why it took me so long to move it.
The bigger part of me didn’t want to disrupt your space.
The most recent part of me thought, why not?
You can always put it back.
So now it sits on the entertainment center, covered to protect it from dust—I know how much it meant to you. I’ve used the VR twice since bringing it up here last week—Tetris. And, I might add (not sure if you’d agree, lol), I prefer my Meta Quest 3 over the PS VR. 🙂
I still can’t get into your PlayStation account. Who knows what birth date you used when you set it up—you were underage at the time. And getting back into mine? That took a minute too—and not without tears. Everything feels like a task, and somehow it all connects back to you… to this grief journey, in one way or another.
Looking back at that mop of hair—you were in a “let’s grow it out” phase. Nothing major—the brief black hair phase was yet to come. I think a lot of it had to do with Logan—you looked up to him, followed his lead. He was your big brother, after all. But wow… a head of hair. Just like Mom.
I talk to you every day. Do you hear me? Do you see me cry?
Grief.
And a decade coming up.
I love you.
I miss you.
You should be here.
Mom.
Daly Chronicles 