I wish that I could live on air and music

It's really freakin' spooky in my house at the moment. It's been almost three weeks since our son, Johannes, died. Since that day, our house has became a hub of activity. Two days after the memorial service, everyone has finally gone home; which is so bittersweet. I've been feeling really cramped, but at the same time, our company has kept me somewhat sane, if only because I was so busy entertaining them and fulfilling endless lists of things to do.

By my best count, 79 people showed up at Hans memorial on Saturday. We fealt very much loved, and we know and trust in our hearts that they too loved Hans as we did. Still, I can't help but wonder what happens from here ... for many, Saturday served as a point of closure for them with our son. He was someone that existed, briefly, but not in the same light as he had existed for us. For us he will always be here, and I don't think that most people understand this. "Time heals all wounds". I don't think so, infact, I call bullshit. My wounds are bleeding deeply, and they will continue to do so for quite some time. They may very well scab over, but they (he) will always be here. You can't just sweep your child under some rug. A dear friend of ours had poignantly mentioned that being the parent of a dead child is much more trying than being the parent of a living child. She gets us. I get her, but then again, she's the mother of a dead child. I suppose that we 'get' each other, while others look at us in disbelief; grieving for ghosts.