Habits

Today I see Colby everywhere. He is on a bike on the other side of the street, skateboarding in a parking lot. He's the kid leaning against the tree, coming out of the store, walking away from me, driving the car that passes me. Today I see Colby everywhere. Yet none of these people are my son. None of them are Colby. It is all smoke and mirrors. A mirage.

My counselor says I am well-grounded in reality, that I understand––truly understand––that Colby is gone and is not coming back. But if that is the case, why does my heart leap out of my chest every time I see someone who, on closer inspection, only vaguely resembles Colby? Why do I for the briefest instant think, "Oh, there's my son. I wonder what he's doing here?"

Habit, I think. During the past 23 years I developed the habit of looking for my son, of expecting him to be close by, of knowing that he will soon drive in the driveway, knock on the door, peek through the window, call on the phone. It is a habit for me to expect that, and as we all know, habits are hard to break.

I want to break this habit. Badly. For every time I see someone who might be my son, I go through the pain of losing him all over again. Fourteen times today I go through that loss. Fourteen times my heart leaps in joy at the sight of my son, then it weeps.

Members of my support group tell me that time will take care of much of this, but that this habit of expecting my son to arrive will never completely go away. I will be 80 years old and I will see a tall, thin young man with light brown hair in disarray and think for one blissful moment that he is my child. My child, stuck in time, un-aged, still 23. Then the sinking feeling will come as my heart drops into the pit of my stomach and I remember once again that my son has passed. Countless other grieving parents have told me this is the way it is, the way it will always be. Old habits die hard, and young men and women, cherished children of lost parents, are forever frozen in time.