Bedtime had always been a sacred time for me and Anton. When he was smaller, it was time for bedtime stories. When he got a little bit older, it was time for Anton's stories. The past few years, when I would come home really late from work or from business trips, bedtime meant a quick squeeze hug or kiss and his usual, "How was your day, Mom?", always said with his signature sleepy smile. There was comfort and security in coming home to him, even on nights he was fast asleep as I stumbled into our room.
Since he passed, bedtimes have been the most difficult time of the day, when I lay down my defenses and floodgates release the currents kept at bay the entire day. Sometimes I would do my evening yoga. Sometimes I watched something on Netflix or YouTube.
Early yesterday morning I chanced upon "Fox and the Whale" on YouTube. From the very beginning, the short film struck me as hauntingly poignant. The texture and contrast of the imagery and animation was perfectly complemented by raw nature sounds and emotional music. Watching it, I finally realized what lies at the core of my pain.
Each day I go through the motions of the living, diligently (sometimes deliriously; sometimes thoughtlessly) fulfilling my tasks and responsibilities. Yet, just like the fox who sees the whale's tail everywhere he goes, I see Anton in everything --- a piece of paper, a random song or phrase, his favorite (or dreaded) food. As the fox finds himself coming back to the shore everyday, I find myself constantly aching, yearning and searching for that anchoring feeling of HOME. And I don't know if I will ever find it again.
I am unmoored.
Chancing upon a whale tooth, the fox uses it to find the whale. But what he finds is the remains of a whale long gone. The fox is faced with the reality of letting go. He takes one final glance and heads back out, the sea calm and the sky clear.
Every night I have to wrestle between acknowledging the yearning and guiding myself towards acceptance that I will no longer have those pillow talks or the squeeze hugs and that beautiful beautiful smile. Unlike the fox, though, whose search closes as he leaves the whale's graveyard, my days are much like this short film --- in loop.
Anton was my home, and, though I try to find meaning in the remaining days God has gifted me with, these days sometimes feel more like purgatory.
I know, someday, when my heart is ready and no longer heavy, I will go out towards the clear blue sea and sky. I will find strength knowing I carry him with me wherever I go. But, until then, I am a fox haunted by a whale's magnificent tail (or a Little Prince's quirky laughter).
