“Poor kid just downed in his own lungs. So easy to treat. Must have had a bad fever.” Jim said that to me in text today.

Callous, wasn’t it? In normal times I could roll my eyes, maybe wince. These are not normal times. I sobbed for half an hour, the kind where I can’t catch my breath.

I can’t think about his last moments. Cannot do it.

Another day with puffy red eyes and mottled cheeks.

But some of it was good. The moon came up early and the sky was brilliant blue and orange. Go Gators.

Cynthia grilled me on Ben’s medical examiner results even though I know nothing more than she does. Why didn’t they mention Pneumonia before? I don’t know. But I don’t want to call and ask that. Why not? I don’t know, I find it hard to talk to them knowing they carved him up and weighed his brain and liver and everything else. I can’t think about that. I can’t think about his last moments. I don’t care why they never mentioned Pneumonia before. I want all of it to go away. I want him to come back. The more I know the less likely he can come back. I realize that’s an irrational thought, but I can’t help the feeling. It just is.

One day I’ll wake up and tell him about the most vivid and horrific nightmare I’ve ever had. I’ll cry and hold him so close to me he’ll pull back and say “Mama…. jeez! Let go, you’re squishing me.” One day.

Until then, don’t talk to me about autopsies. Ashes. Urns. Headstones. Drowning.