This weekend marked the three month “anniversary” of Christopher’s accident. That is how I usually refer to it. I rarely say, “his death”. Odd, I know.

Today, Monday, March 10, it dawned on me that it was three months ago today that I “buried my son”. Wow. That is almost more harsh than “his death.” Words are interesting. One expression that is used is that “I lost my son”. At the time of the accident I would tell the story of the accident and then say, “Christoper didn’t make it.”

When I refer to the service that we had on December 10th at the church, I say, “Christopher’s service.” I never refer to it as his funeral. Technically, it was a memorial service because his body was not there, but I can assure you that I am not being so precise, I am being selective. There is no way to soften, “I buried my son.”

Why do I want to soften it anyways? It is not as if the reality is any different if I use “nicer” words. My house and heart aren’t any emptier because “I lost my son” or “he didn’t make it” than it is that he died. December 10 was a difficult day – whether it was a service or a funeral. And I did bury my son that day.

It is a hard reality and different words aren’t going to make is less so. It is my reality and I hate it (I almost said, “I don’t like it”, but that is too polite for the circumstances.) I hate it.