I was 5 years old when  Jon was born. Old enough to remember it happening, and young enough that I can’t really look back and remember anything with him not existing.  As far back as my memories go, at the Cape, he is there.  Cute, and sweet and funny and quiet.
At the end, when he was sick, and we knew it, I thought we had a lot more time.  I selfishly cut our last call short, knowing  we would have many more chances to talk.  I also selfishly postponed getting a flu shot, that I needed in order to see him again, because I didn’t feel like it – AND I knew I’d see him soon for Thanksgiving and Christmas.  I’d make sure me and the rest of us got the shot before then.
My youngest son asked me when we would see him next, and I said, soon.
Because people don’t die of AIDs anymore right?  They live for years and years.  They have to be careful, and take meds, etc, but they don’t die suddenly.  Or suffer greatly.  That is so 1986.
But I was wrong.
Jon had some bouts of sickness moments where he would have to be hospitalized and get new meds or have things evaluated, and on one hand, when it was happening, it seemed to drag on and on.   Then suddenly,  it was over, and it seemed like it had happened so quickly.  I know that really doesn’t make sense when I read it out loud, but that is how it seemed and felt.  Like every second was an hour and then it all just ended
We found out in April he was HIV positive.  In Oct we knew it was Aids.  Every day counting T-cells. Then in Nov, he was gone.  I really only saw him a handful of times in that period.  Some of those times were better than others.  Honestly some of the things me and my kids saw were the worst human conditions I have ever seen, what  you’d imagine biblical plagues to look like.  He looked see-thru.  I know what we saw was really nothing compared to what my parents dealt with.
Jon you were possibly the only person who could appreciate what I chose today to commemorate you, but anyone who knew you at all will understand.  And really, if they saw you one hundred times at any point in your days here, you had on a Red Sox hat 99 of those 100 times.
Remember when Grampa Bud used to joke he was gonna tuck your ears into the hat 😉
I heard an unexpected blessing this week out of no where,  A blessing for your beautiful son.  You’re still there for him.  It brought me to my knees  I felt you in the moment.  I wish I could just talk to you real quick, but, I know you know.
I’m so glad we went to Massachusetts after Christmas and spread your ashes.  I love you and I still talk to you and I know you hear me.  Thanks for playing Beatles, Guns N Roses and sometimes Eminem for me on the radio when I need it, usually in the morning when I’m driving deep in thought.  I still cry every day.