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Does It Ever Get Easier?

July 25, 2016

Mom, Dad, and Kenny

Life goes on. What a cruel saying but the truth of the matter is it does. Days go by. One sees the passing of the seasons. Flowers bloom and then they die and then the leaves fall off the trees and the snow comes with the harshness of bitter cold and wind that takes your breath away and then a new year and then you think, is it possible my little child who meant so much to us has missed five of his birthdays? We haven’t missed them but he has. Every year that day reminds us of the joy, the worry, the laughter, the hopes, the pain and above all else, the future of our son, a future that is no more.

Easier? I don’t know. The intensity of the loss is less. We go on with our lives, trying to make the best of what is left of them. The most treasured part of our lives is the family we have left and then welcoming new lives into our hearts, hoping for them a happy and healthy life and a future that is rich and full. But still, a wall remains within me. Do I ever want to feel that overwhelming love for anyone anymore? It hurts so much when you love so much, because in a fraction of a second, it can all be taken away and all you have left are the memories. The memories hurt so badly because you can’t touch memories; you can only relive them in your mind and sometimes, the memories are so sweet that it makes it that much harder and more painful to remember.

Today, five years after the accident, after the tragedy, the cruel twist of fate or whatever one wants to call it, I reflect on the five years of trying to pick up the pieces and salvage the time that is left of my life.

Yes, it is easier, the pain of loss more tolerable. There are new reasons to live. There are days when I can honestly say, “This is a good day.” I enjoy the challenge of trying new things but I still must confess the emptiness in my heart, the loneliness I often feel for my son. The aches are sometimes so bad that they can seem insurmountable but the severity of the pain is less that it was, allowing me to resume “every-day living.”

The void for my son will remain, probably for the rest of my life. Even through the laughter and the smiles, a sadness remains. Perhaps, I choose it to be this way. It is a way of keeping Kenny alive.


Rochelle Goldman

July, 1987


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