I lived just a stones throw from the local secondary school, and as the autumn term returned each year, the noise and bustle would once again fill the street lads with hefty rucksacks slung over one shoulder, shirts either untucked or half buttoned, peals of laughter, mothers hurrying along, bicycles abandoned at the corner as pupils rushed inside. For most people, it was an ordinary spectacle. For me, it was a blow to the chest. Three years past now, my sonsixteen at the time and in Year Elevenpassed away, and ever since, this season has weighed heaviest upon me.
My son, William, was just sixteen. That evening, hed gone out for supper with friends, lingered a while in the park afterwards. It was ten oclock at night when he began to cross the road, heading home. I was waiting up for him, as I always did. A motorist, drunk and reckless, sped through a red lightdidnt slow down, didnt stop. William never had the chance even to react. When the hospital rang, I felt utterly drained and hollow. I stood there, bereft of words, barely comprehending what was being said.
I had lost my parents before. Their absence brought sorrow, a heavy sadness that left a mark. But nothing compares to burying ones child. It shatters the natural order of things. I felt rage, helplessness, guiltall at once. I tormented myself over having let him go out, for not sending a message to come home earlier, for why the Lord would allow such a thing. For months I railed at God. I prayed, I wept, I pleaded that it was unfair to be robbed of my boy without warning.
For many years, Ive run a little bookshop. It was our bread and butter. I sold exercise books, packs of coloured pencils, biros, made photocopies and printouts, and even acted as an agent for banking services, so people were in and out all day long. I used to take joy in serving the pupils. Now, every school blazer reminds me of his. Every child buying a notebook transports me back to all those I once bought for William. Sometimes, Id be making copies, and suddenly, my eyes would fill with tears.
That first year after William was gone, I nearly gave up the shop. I could barely summon the will to raise the shutters. I forced myself up, knowing I needed to eat, to pay the rent, to keep on top of the electricity bill. So many times, I greeted customers with a forced smile and a shattered heart. There were days when gaggles of boys would come in, laughing among themselves, and Id barely keep from breaking down.
Over time, I stopped being so furious with God. Not that the pain lessened, but because my anger was making me ill. My prayers changed. I no longer complained. I asked for strength and for peace. I pleaded for help to carry on, to live with this hollow wound that nothing can fill.
These days, as I watch the start of a new school year, my heart tightens all over again. I dont cry as much as I once did, but the ache remainsquieter now, settled in its place. Ive learnt to live with it, though it never truly leaves. A person learns to breathe around the pain, not to erase it.
Every morning, I open my bookshop. I tend to the children who come in. I watch the sea of rucksacks pass my door. And though I may look strong from the outside, within I am still that mother, listening for her sons key in the lock at ten oclock at night though I know, no matter how much I hope, that moment will never come again.
