When a child is born, time is measured in fleeting moments. You find it astonishing that in what feels like an instant, your entire existence can undergo such a profound transformation. Just hours ago, life was one way, and now you recognize an irreversible, significant change. The love you thought you understood deepens into a capacity that makes previous experiences of love seem pale and flat. Initially, you track your baby’s age in hours, then days. Before long, much like you counted down the weeks during pregnancy, you transition to weeks—6 weeks, 8 weeks, 12 weeks—aligning with the milestones outlined in your parenting books. Eventually, this system becomes cumbersome, and you shift to months. Before you know it, you’ll be calculating your child’s age in years, and perhaps even reflecting on how that relates to your own age.
When faced with the death of a child, the perception of time takes on a different, haunting quality. How could it be that just moments before I reached the water’s edge, Jack was alive and well? They had searched for him for hours. It has now been a day since he disappeared. One week. Two weeks. Three. Is it time to consider a month? But his belongings remain—his clothes, his unwearable new school shoes sitting by his room’s door, and even the mail that still arrives for him.
When we reflect on weeks, we recall specific moments, like a Thursday at 6 PM. As time stretches into months, we remember the 8th. The duality of pain is overwhelming. Will there come a day when we measure time solely in years? What about decades? I believe that moment will arrive. Jack will remain forever at not quite 12 ½ years old.
In the early years, you celebrate milestones, wishing to fast-forward through the more challenging days while simultaneously wanting to pause and enjoy the fleeting moments of childhood. Now, as you mourn the loss of your child, the chasm between your past and present widens. Yet, paradoxically, you find yourself yearning for time to hasten, as decades without him feel insufferably long.
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