Question With No Answer

Let me tell you the cruelest thing of all. I have to fight thinking of him at all.

I can’t think about his birthday or the first step he took. I can’t think about those little milk-flavored kisses. I can’t think about that little boy smell. The one I just loved and took in each time he ran into the house after playing outside. I would grab him and swing him around as he giggled and yelled for joy. Then I would stick my freckled nose right into his hair on top of his head and just breathe in that wonderful little boy smell.

I can’t think of holding his little hand as we walked through the desert paths. I can’t think of his giggles or those little boy hugs. That is the saddest part. The part that is most cruel for even when those happy scenes come to me they quickly return to his bright green eyes grown huge staring at me with that question that is impossible to answer or to face now. The question I ask every day of the God I used to have. “Why?”

He could no longer speak but his eyes said it all. “Why? Why don’t you help me?” Did he know I was helpless? That I could not move? That I could not save him.

Every good thought and memory I have always quickly flows to then; to that look in his eye and the question for which I will never be able to answer. “Why?”