About moving on.

I know eventually I will, we all will. I know the last thing Jesse would want is for all of us to wallow in grief over him until we ourselves die, having achieved nothing. He would want us to carry on the exact kinds of things he expected of us all, and of himself in life. I couldn't be the kind of mother that I wanted to be with Jesse (life and human limitations saw to that), but we both tried, again and again, to find the kind of peace we wanted to have between us. I think if Jesse were around today, he'd be urging me to get things done, like going back to grad school, like traveling, turning dreams into plans into actions.

But I can't let go, move on, forget. I can't live for Jesse, and I can just imagine what he'd say if he thought I were. But I can't live without the belief that he is still out there somewhere, even if I have to lie to myself a little that there is some kind of afterlife, some way he knows of me and that I can know of him. That's my way of accepting my own limitations in the face of this ineffable, monstrous, mundane, obvious fact of existence. This bargain we make with life.

I can maybe add some new threads to the fabric of this blog. A little broader picture of life, of what it means to survive the event horizon of this endless loss. I can't move on, really, but I can move forward.