Bittersweet. That's a term I always assumed I understood. Bittersweet, though, must be lived to be fully appreciated; it requires a loss of innocence with the yearning to look back, and a fear of not being able to move forward. Bittersweet, to me, brings a whispered longing in my soul for who we were, and a raw, weeping regret that I didn't hold fast enough to what I had when I had it. That's the thing about bittersweet, though--you can never know how intensely good the best days are until they are no longer available to you.
I found this picture of Logan the other day. He was 11 years old. We were out in the woods, searching for a Christmas tree, a tradition we started when the kids were really little. We always ended up with some sort of Charlie Brown tree that had to be tied to the wall in order to stay standing. Finding the perfect tree took an entire Sunday afternoon, and, like all the girls in the bar getting prettier at closing time, all the trees in the forest started looking perfect as the boys got tired. You can see my husband and younger son in the distance, dragging the chosen tree home behind them.
When I see my little Logan here, I have a hard time not crawling into that picture and into the comfort of the past. I want to reach out and cup his face with my hands. I want to press my lips to his forehead and breathe in his scent. Just one more time, I think. I can't remember the last time I did that. I guess life is like that; we move to the next stage of it without realizing how many last times we've left in the mist. I miss this boy, and I miss us.
I don't want Logan's life to be defined by his death. He was far too interesting a person for that. I have found that, when I celebrate who Logan was, I grieve less for what he didn't get the chance to become. I try to be honest about who he was, both the good and the bad, because he played life pretty straight. I don't want his memory to evolve into something his brothers do not recognize, or feel they have to live up to. I don't want to wrap myself so securely in the past that they end up feeling I loved Logan more than them, yet I need to remember. I do not want these two beautiful boys I still have with me to say that they buried me the day they buried Logan. It's a very fine line to walk, this celebrating, loving, remembering, and grieving honestly.
I hope that, with time, the bitter regrets can be harvested and blended with the good memories in the perfect sweet/tart balance that lingers long on my tongue and ever my mind.
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