Missing David

My twin sister's first child, David, died June 29, 2005.
A brain tumor grew and grew and grew and eventually
snuffed out his life.
He was 6 years, 1 month, two weeks old.
I found him.

His mom tucked David in, kissed him and told him
she was the luckiest mommy in the world to have him as her son.
And she told him he could go.

I wanted to be there sooner.
I knew. Something would happen that day.
When I saw my sister laughing on the telephone, I thought it was OK.
Nothing bad happened.

I went upstairs to say goodnight,
knelt down by his bed and kissed him, saying
"Good night, sweet David."
His eyes were half open.
I called his name a little louder, touched his shoulder, gently shook him, watching for him to wake up, to know that I was there.
He'd asked for me all day and evening.
I so hope he knew I’d come home.
His mommy says he knew I was and it was finally safe to go.

I can't sleep tonight for missing him,
for grief.
I opened a drawer and saw his little sweatpants.
I kept them because I need a piece of him with me.
He'll always be that size.
He'll never grow any bigger. Never.

It's beyond words.
I miss him so much.
I am engulfed by grief.
I'm free to cry, and I do.

I go to the cemetery and just cry so deeply
sitting on that beautiful bench,
looking at the footstone words:
"David Leland Coble, Best Boy in the World."

The worst thing
is that I don't feel entitled to this grief.
I'm just his aunt.
But that's not how I feel.
He was my boy. I was his "almost mom."
He called me Mommy a lot because
I look so much like his mommy and I love him like a mommy.
Like a mommy, I would have done anything to protect and save him.

I have been blessed to feel I would give my life to save his.
The futility of that wish, that desire is deadly.
I feel myself go numb.

I find it so hard to accept that David is really not coming back.
I know it, I see the grave,
I hear the absent footsteps and silenced voice,
I feel the empty arms and loadless back.