It is 8:30 on Sunday, June 19, 2011. It is what was supposed to be our first Father's Day. In a way, it is, but not in the way it should have been. I am sitting in your room with only the sounds of my typing and your clock to keep me company. You should be here, sleeping, fussing, or just being alert and cute looking up at me or your Mommy. I wish I could say something profound or even the slightest bit meaningful, but I am not that adept or even all that smart in these matters. You would be 5 1/2 months old about now, rolling over, trying to crawl, maybe even scooting backwards...who knows. All I know is that on certain days...this being one...looking at an urn with your ashes hurts. You were my son, you are my son, and you will always be my son. I just wish that I could look at your tiny little face sleeping as opposed to hearing the sound of my fingers on a keyboard and the clock that never stops reminding me of the time that has passed since you have been gone. Thank you for sharing the 20 minutes to type this on Father's Day. Good night son.
I love you,