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Twenty-two months

22 months have come and gone. One month for every year you were on this earth.

I know I’m a few days late in writing this, I have no excuse.

I still miss you so much sometimes it’s hard to breathe.

Sometimes I feel like I should be waiting for you to come home any minute… that you’ll just walk in and tell me about your day.

I’d love to hear about a crazy customer, or how you got lost trying to find an address. Or even how much you hate your job.

Or maybe by now you’d be in a job you’d like, and you could share how much you LOVE your new job with me.

Would you have gone on to get your Bachelors degree? Would you be happy with the choices you’d made?

But you aren’t here.

And these are the simple musings of a mother in grief.
A woman seeking justice.
Just one cracking voice screaming for help
Into the wormhole of space that is our Justice System…
Never to be heard.

This I promise, son.

I’ll keep screaming for Justice, until I have no voice.
Then I’ll write. When I can no longer write,
Then I’ll draw. When I can no longer draw,
Then I’ll learn sign language. When I can no longer communicate,
Then they can put it on my gravestone.

Gwen Carver

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