"Tarry Me"

It still catches me by surprise to see Jacob walk across a room looking so impossibly tall and grown up.  It seems like such a short time ago that he was looking up at me, his face tilted up to mine, little arms outstretched, "Tarry me!"

 Jake couldn't say his /k/ or /g/ sounds for the longest time.  While we were proud when his speech therapist helped him learn to form the sounds, the whole family missed some of the adorable substitutions he'd invented.  Cory especially got a kick out of catering to his every whim when he was just a little guy and would beam when he'd trail behind her, clutching his stuffed puppy by one ear, clamoring for her attention.  He'd hold up his arms and demand, "Tarry me, tarry me, Toey!"

I can see her hoisting him onto her bony little hip and off they'd go on one of their Dynamic Duo adventures.  She talked him easily into playing Barbies or American Girl hair salon.  Once, she called me into the room they were playing in to introduce her little sister...Jacobina.  Yes, she had overridden any initial protests he might have had and poured him into a t-shirt-knotted-at-the-hip-makshift-dress, did his hair in the most micro of piggy tails, and added some glitter to his cheeks.  If I remember correctly, there was a swipe of lip gloss on his lips.  He looked equal parts proud and miserable.  His face said something about this doesn't feel quite right, but I'll do anything for this girl.

She felt exactly the same way, finding it nearly impossible to say no to him about anything.  As he gained inches in height, she marveled over his growth, his language, his ideas, his quiet sense of humor, but still secretly enjoyed (I could tell by the look on her face) that he still had to tilt his head to look up to her even if he was no longer easy to pick up and place on her hip.  When dared, she would try anyways, very nearly rupturing something internally, and laughing all the while.  Usually they ended up somewhere on the living room floor together, limbs tangled, screeching with laughter, and claiming each was stronger than the other.  I'd look over at them, arms and legs half in the air, and know the exact geographic location of my purpose to be in this world.  Those two hearts that beat together as they laughed and joked and teased, echoed my name, my identity, my soul.  I am Cory and Jacob's Mom.  That is me.

When Cory died she was five feet four inches and Jake was still shorter than she was.  He still looked up to her.  I despair sometimes that he still does not speak of the day she died or her funeral.  Those moments are locked in the darkest corner of his heart.  I don't know if I'll ever know exactly what it felt like for him to bend his neck to look down into her casket, ten years old, knowing he'd never look up to her again or be eye to eye with her when he grew taller.

Or look down at the top of her head when she hugged him to her chest, he in his cap and gown at his high school graduation...that he'd never dance with her at her wedding (if she could talk him into it, which I'm not entirely sure she could have, but buddy if anyone could get him to besides his own bride, it would've been Cory)...that he'd never beam down while she clutched her firstborn in a striped hospital receiving blanket, insisting he couldn't possibly hold her child, that he was too scared and it was too small, but caving appropriately when she gently pushed him to give it a try.  No, none of those neck bending situations would come to be. Instead, he bent his neck to say his goodbyes.  I'm certain none of those scenarios crossed his child's mind, but he is no longer a child and I'm pretty sure they cross his mind now.

I wait patiently for him to tell me anything about his perspective.  I've found that telling your story is the only way to gain any sort of control over the most out of control experience you can have.  I'm still stumbling over new hurts and marveling uneasily about how the grief expands and shifts into unforeseen shapes.  And as you well know, I can't seem to stop talking about.  It is the only thing that seems to help.

Sometimes when we go out to her grave, I catch sight of his shadow across her monument or the ground in front of it.  I measure the top of his head with my eyes to the space aligned across from it on her stone.  He speaks to her quietly, but always, always he bends his neck.  He has to.  She's in the ground now.

Never could I have imagined such an ending for my babies.  I can see them playing on the living room floor.  I can see them trick or treating.  I can see them snuggled into a booth out to eat.  Never could I have imagined one of their hearts to stop beating before mine.  I am devastated for myself. But  I am heartbroken for Jacob.  They should have had the longest span of years to spend together.  They should've been able to comfort each other in front of my casket and visit my grave together.

Never did I imagine that one day he would be carrying her every day in his heart and his mind.  He is "the best little brother a girl could ever have".  She said it so many times.

He may not be willing to talk about it yet, but he is carrying her well in his silence.  He will never set her down.  That is what she gave to him:  strength, stability, love.  And a gentle push to try things that he wasn't sure he could do.

Yes, he will carry her just as she carried him.

"Tarry me, Tory."