All of which makes it that much more surprising when 13 reveals itself to still have a little boy at the core of it all. Last night, at the end of the exhausting, long, hard week that forced us to say good bye to our beloved Miss Amy, JT mentioned the music he used to listen to as he drifted off to sleep at night.
I did, remember, of course. For many years, I tucked JT into bed and then softly played classical music for him to listen to as he waited for sleep. Last night, he asked me why I played that music. I told him the truth: he found it hard to wind down and the music helped him to slow down his brain and body; to realize that it was time to rest.
Oh, he said, "I remember that. After Mommy left, I remember listening to the music and asking you every night to reassure me that you would be here when I woke up in the morning. I was afraid you would leave to."
I remembered those months as well, of course, but I hadn't realized how vividly they still existed for JT. Last night I told him again what I told him seven years ago: I am not going anywhere. I reminded him that he was loved; much loved. I fell asleep thinking of my boy that he may be 13, but he's still my baby. And distant though they seem today, some hurts may last a lifetime.