Falling Rock

Yesterday we were with friends at a water park.  I'm trying to give the kids a good summer--nevermind that I cried the whole way there.   Anyway,  I was fine by the time we got there and had a fairly good time.  We had what I originally thought was a pretty innocuous conversation.   Lucy was sharing the names she had picked out for her children:  Garrett,  Patrick,  Seamus,  Molly, and Cassidy.  Not bad.  Then my friend asked if she'd planned her wedding too.  I said I had to for a class in high school.  You know, that class where you have the egg to take care of like it's your baby.

I proceeded to tell about my fake egg baby.  I wanted my baby to be unique.  There would be no curly yarn hair made on a knitting needle;  No ribbons;  No trendy girl name.  I painted my egg brown, gave it a leather loin cloth and named it Falling Rock.  It was an adorable little Indian.  There was no other like it. 

Here's the part of the story that wasn't so innocuous--Somehow my egg got broken.  I don't remember how.  It's been 25 years.  I just didn't take good enough care of it and it broke.  I had to do a report on funeral costs.   Haven't really been able to forget about that conversation today.  It's kinda stuck with me. 

I know from plenty of literature classes that, after the fact, anything can be seen as foreshadowing,  but...
I miss my son today.  I miss him everyday.  I wish I could have control over whether he was here with me today.  I would choose here--not gone.  I wish I could have every second of his life back--that would be 503,442,016 seconds.