How to Travel at the Speed of Light

A primer in imperfect parenting, death, and joy

I’m not the perfect mother. I never was.

But I was your mother, Roman: the only one you got.

I felt perfect love that early 4 a.m. morning when they laid you in my arms. You, those chubby chipmunk cheeks, those sky blue eyes, the soft heat of your brand-new body. I held you and loved you like I could love no other. I held you with the unique yet universal love that bonds each mother and child. I held you and you were warm and small and safe.

I wish you could have stayed that way.

But every mother knows that the ticking of time is both ally and enemy. The minutes and hours changed to days and weeks. Then months and years. Moment by moment, you changed and grew. Day by day, you walked and laughed and raced away. Year by year, you morphed from babe to child to young man.

Now, you’re gone, and I’m left still counting and re-counting the days.

You were 20 years, 6 months, and 18 days old the day you left this life. A sum total of 7500 days walking, leaping, skating, sprinting through this world.

Now, it’s 5 years later. You should be 25. You should be a young man making his way through the day’s work, heading to the skate park, meeting up with friends for an IPA, returning home to kiss the woman you love.

Instead, you’re dead.

There are no new moments with you. No new memories are to be made. No milestones to celebrate.

There’s a silence where there should be your voice. There’s stillness where there once was endless motion. There’s quiet where loud laughter filled the room.

And there’s sadness. Every day, I think of you. No, that’s a lie. Every moment, every second, every breath I draw contains you.

You’re invisible yet omnipresent.

Invisible yet omnipresent.

Before you were born, you floated in some bodiless sea. Now, perhaps you’ve returned there, swimming in eternity’s endless waves.

I’m not going to lie: when you were here, I often struggled with you. I feel like I failed you in so many ways.

I’m sorry for that.

I wish I could have been a better mother. I wish I could have been a better listener and understander. I wish I could have seen your struggles sooner. I wish I could have known what to do.

I’m sorry I failed you.

I’m sorry when I yelled and got mad and lost patience. I’m sorry when I sent you out of the room in futility, in peevishness, in anger. I’m sorry we argued. I’m sorry I couldn’t see the weight of your rage, your depression, your problems, your pain. I’m sorry I slapped you that Tuesday morning. I’m sorry for that one dark night when you came home drunk, disorderly, disoriented, high outta your mind on something and I told you that you had a bad heart.

“I don’t!” you shouted. “I have a good heart!”

You do, Roman. You do.

It was my heart that failed me. And now, sometimes, I don’t know how to forgive myself.

I carry the weight of my failure. I carry the burden of my grief. I carry your life with mine.

But, in truth, I carry these, but I also carry something else, maybe something far, far more important than my sadness, anger, sorrow, and guilt.

I carry the joy that was — that is — you. You were a test, a trial, a pain in the ass. But you were a sunbeam, a rascal, a devilish delight. You brought laughter — and fun. You were a bright and joy-filled child. Your photos beam with light.

You were joy. You gave that to me. To your family. To all of us.

Mothers are made to bear children. We mothers are created to nurture their babies, to watch them learn and grow. We use words to scold and soothe. We have hearts to love. We have arms to hold and protect and keep our children safe.

I couldn’t keep you safe, Roman. But I hold you still.

I hold you still.

I hold onto grief for your short life. But I hold onto joy because you were here. Because you were mine.

Einstein told us that all things merge, relatively speaking. He showed us that even the heaviest object becomes light as it races toward infinity. Even a monumental boulder of dense lead becomes lighter and lighter as it races past planets, as it sprints along the galaxy’s starry edge. Faster and faster, it hurtles past thought and time. Quicker and quicker, it sprints and spins.

Then, what once was a ponderous mass reaches the speed of light. In a splintered second, it bursts into pure energy.

But you know this, Roman. Revolutionary, rascal, and rebel, you were always racing on ahead, dragging the weight of this world in your wake.

I look up at the sky. I close my eyes.

I see you, hurtling past panic and hurt and this too-narrow life. I see you, sprinting through time. I see you, dancing past the stars.

There: past this autumn evening, two degrees left of this October sunset, five million miles from this world, I see you separate from time.

I feel you burst into light.