One contained a poem by Matt Moberg. After scratching sleep from the corners of my eyes, I was able to read. I devoured the words which were an entry point for me to access the bruised places:
Tears in my eyes, thinking about my version of life, the enormity of my pain, as well as its insignificance to the crowds of people outside, standing next to fountains and ancient rocks, speaking Italian and German and French, all bumping into each other, and apologizing in the same language. Thinking about Riley, and his blip in the timeline of existence, how it collided with mine for a moment, that changed everything for me, but nothing for the dog or the trees or the waves that reach for the sand and wash away his name, as well as great cliffs with enough patience and persistence.
I look for him out of the corner of my eye and almost see him in a stranger’s hair or glasses sometimes, and on a rare occasion, when I’m lucky, I see him in a scar down someone’s chest or in the blueness of someone’s lips, or I’ll hear a child’s laugh that tickles a memory, from when he was six months old or eight years old, or see an adult’s rounded face with a nose that is the exact shape and size, and with the right amount stubble that matches the 2026 version of how my imagination pictures this invisible boy.
Those words could use some editing, but I’ve left the raw version.
We are in Italy - Venice last week and Rome this week. Intentionally here for Riley’s anniversary. He loved the idea of having Italian heritage and making bruschetta and eating spaghetti and red sauce. But I am finding that I’m just heartbroken again and again at the infinite number of things that he never got to do and will never get to do. It’s so crowded that it’s hard to find a peaceful spot to just sit and think about all of it.
