I can't see him, but I can feel that he is close. I feel the breeze on my neck, hear it whooshing past my face, and I can't help but wonder if this is his way of communicating with me. His way of staying close to me.
Is he trying to tell me that he's okay? That he's still alive.
That his spirit is all around me. That his soul is immortal. That he is part of every breath I take.
Or is it just the wind? The same wind that even mothers who have never lost a baby can feel.
Sometimes I wonder how much of the mystery of heaven is truth, how much is faith and how much is grief trapping me in denial for my own sanity. How much of his presence is my subconscious mind, unable to ever let him go.
This is why I question my own faith. Because I don't know if I have faith because I believe or because I need to believe. Because I am desperate beyond rationality.
I don't know if I feel him in the wind, see him in the glow of the sunset, hear him in the crashing waves because he is always on my mind, because it is I who is seeking a glimpse of him.
Or because it is him who has come back to find me. Is heaven perhaps not a palace in the sky, but rather the freedom to fly in the wind that brushes against those who need you most.
Though the truth is a mystery never to be solved, I like to think that I feel him close by during certain moments because he is with me.
Because it's hard to accept that someone who is so loved could ever die.
Because it's so much sweeter to imagine that he never really left.
Because maybe he's not lost.
Maybe he's just waiting in the wind.
