Sundays

This morning, while Lee was out on his bike, I laid in bed avoiding adulting, and then I heard something. It sounded just like Connor did when he's vocalize out to us from his bedroom, sort of a "I'm up...please come get me!" indication. It's the same sound my imagination created in my head the night after he died, before I wrote the first posthumous entry here. I miss that sound, but it always makes me happy to hear it, even though it's imaginary. 

Then again, it could have been Tucker. He has been a pretty good mimic for Connor's vocalizations. But I'm pretty certain it was my mind. He was too engrossed in Turbo. 

Sundays have become the days I seem to encounter the most sadness. I wonder if it's because it's a quiet morning, which allows my mind to work overtime and entertain scenarios and memories that busy days tamp down. Maybe it's because Sunday is forever linked to faith days for me, and this experience has been the most important test, and testament, of my faith. 

Who really knows anyway? But this morning I heard his voice again. A hymn to this day. That sound used to drive me from whatever I was doing to him. Now he's always with me, so I have to listen carefully to be able to hear him.