It's April again.
For the third time since Freddie's birth and death, April has hauled it's sorry self back into view. I want to love it, I do. It's his month and I want to love it but the irony is all too much.
My little Good Friday boy, my little Easter boy. All this imagery of death and rebirth, of fertility and joy, of magnanimous gods giving up their son and people supposed to be grateful. It makes me rage. I believe in chocolate more than I believe in any of that. Three years on and I don't believe in angels in the sky, or heaven or seeing him again one day, or him being too beautiful for earth or there being a greater plan.
If I believe in anything, it's some malevolent fucking being thinking it was funny to rip my son away from me at Easter, in spring, in the sodding month I hated all my adult life, when I was going to have to live the dates and the timelines twice every bloody year.
Whatever I did, I didn't deserve that. He didn't deserve that. I do not believe in any god or any stupid story that preaches about life after death or expects me to be grateful to some god who gave up his son for 32 short years when he knew he could have him back any time. Big deal.
Don't pray that god will rescue me, or I that I will find him or be saved. It cuts nothing with me. I don't believe any of it. I don't appreciate it. This year, more than ever, I hate every mention of bloody Easter and being grateful.
Last year was okay. I managed last year. But this year an image was planted in my head and the combination of celebration and dates is all too much. This year it snowed on my daffodils and I'm just so fucking angry that I will never know who he was, or when he would have walked or how like his daddy he would have been and I'm buying the wrong number of Easter eggs and that I don't even know what was wrong with him.
I will never know. Never. And it snowed on my daffodils.