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Drunk Potato Pie

I've known it was coming for about a month. 
A breakdown. A moment. A time. A mourning. 

I spoke about it to my counselor. "There is a time coming where I'm going to lose it. I'm going to be alone and I'm taking out his clothes and I will lose my shit."

Today was that day. Coming home from the grocery store, I knew it would be over 3 hours before Brad would be home. I'm suppose to shampoo the carpets and bake a pie. Enzo's favorite pie. Sweet Potato Pie. 

But instead, I took 3 ibuprofen (grieving gives you all kinds of body aches) and made a Dr Pepper Zero. 
I poured a shot of whiskey and toasted to my son. 
"I miss you, kiddo." 
Downed it. 

Kiddo. I called him that from day one. I called all my boys in Anderson Home that. 
They're all still kiddo, no matter how old they get. 
Enzo made sure to let me know he loved being called Kiddo by his mom. 
"A term of endearment only you use for me. That's a mom thing," he pointed out. 
He's right. 

I went into his room, now Brad's office. I pulled down all the clothes that his biological sister let me go through and keep. I chose everything I could remember him wearing during holidays or sentimental events. 
I sat in the floor, Kleenex ready, and pulled the clothes into my arms.  I buried my face in them and there he was. 
Enzo. 
I could see him, smell him, feel him. 
My son.

I then let out all the grief, anger, hurt, sadness, darkness, and despair that had been following me for weeks, threatening to take me out. 

I spoke to grief. 
"You want out? Let's do this."

I let out the same sounds that only came from me in the days after Enzo's suicide. A guttural moan. A cry. An anguish. 
The cries you hear in movies from actors playing a broken hearted mother. 
That cry. 

I didn't stop it. 
I soaked in this sorrow. 
I lamented in this loss. 
I wept over this death. 

I cradled and held him. I cried for his death. He was alone.
In a field. With nothing but a phone call to report his own death. 

I didn't get to hold him as he died. Instead, he was in a cold hospital room. Or maybe the ambulance. I don't know for sure. But I know his mom wasn't there. 

I wept for what seemed like hours. 

And then stopped. I put his clothes away. In a ziplock bag, trying to  preserve the scent for as long as I can. 
I let my dogs know I was ok. 

And now, a few more shots in, I'm going to bake Enzo's sweet potato pie. 
And tomorrow, I'll share it with my family. 
We'll eat. We'll be sad. We'll smile. We will move forward. Maybe only bc we are forced to, but we will still do it. 

And I know Enzo will be with us. Mad as hell that I baked for him this year, bc I never did that while he was alive. 

Maybe we should call it Drunk Potato Pie in our family from now on. 

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