It’s been eight weeks today since my son left this world. I find it so hard to believe, as it has gone so fast, yet feels like a lifetime too.
This morning, on the way to work, I spotted a boy the same age, weight, height and colouring as Barry. He even wore the same type of clothing and had the same spiked hair style. He stood with his back to me, looking at something in his hands. He even stood the same way as Barry. My heart ached for this boy to turn around and show me that it was indeed my son, although my head told me that it wasn’t possible.
For the first time, I didn’t cry. I drove on thinking about what Barry might have been doing should he be alive. Would he have found himself a job? Would he have mended the problems in his relationship with his girlfriend? Would he have been looking forward to an exciting weekend? There are so many possibilities.
At lunchtime, I went home and stood quietly in his room for a few minutes, looking at the little grey box which contains his ashes. It’s still difficult to get my head around the changes one decision has made. I still can’t believe that he did this because of his feelings for one person. I honestly don’t think I can ever accept that as a good reason for ending your own life. There is so much more to life than a single person, no matter how strong our feelings are.
I feel that Barry threw away a good life, a good future. There was so much he had not experienced yet, and now he never will. I wish I had the power to turn back time…