“There is no grief like the grief that does not speak.”

–Longfellow

With all the sympathy of a robotic conveyor belt, time keeps moving forward without Vincent. Half a year and counting. Every new experience pushes him further into the past, out of view, beyond reach. He stopped, but we continue. Each family milestone accentuates the widening separation between then and now. We can always recall, retain and recollect, but there will be no new memories of my second-born son. We may eat birthday cake every year on May 10, but Vincent won’t be blowing out any candles. His life is over, his story written. In the words of the always-eloquent Porky Pig, “That’s all folks!”

So what now? Is there more to grief than introspection and self-pity? Can Vincent’s memory be honored with responses other than sorrow and heartache? As the recent grows distant, I’ve got no new material at press time, just spin-offs and reruns. I need a different gig. This schtick is getting old.

He was such a great kid, that boy. Inquisitive and curious. Playful with a sneaky streak. Good instincts, big heart. Guaranteed handsome and talented. So much potential. He wasn’t ready to go. Kept fighting to the end. He loved all of us.

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