There are moments when my heart is being torn into shreds. 

Sometimes, there is beauty in knowing he is safe, at peace, untroubled, and free. 

There is also an endless, awful ache that has me writhing in pain and grinding my teeth because he is lost to me forever. I have to look for him in breezes, birds, and secret signs only he and I would know. 

He is my son. 

He was my baby.

I held him. I bathed him. I taught him to ride his bike. I bought him his sneakers. (He loved sneakers). I helped him pass his Regents exams. I taught him to drive a car. We visited colleges and selected the perfect one together. 

And then, he rose and shone like I never could have imagined. Oh, I predicted! But I never could have imagined how beautiful he’d be. 

I felt it in my bones all along. He had an unusual, beautiful, sensitive soul. I saw it in his tiny body as an infant, in his curiosity as a toddler, in his brown eyes and silly behavior as a boy, and in his quiet understanding as a young man. 

From birth, he sensed an overwhelming world around him. His responses puzzled us—people who could not see or hear what he could. For him, the senses were loud, strong, big, too much. But he tamed them, gave them names, and conquered them—from the tops of buildings and in hidden tunnels under rivers and parks. 

He told me who he really was. 

He shared that secret with me. 

An angel all along. 

A soul sent to earth to love, paint, ache, fear, share, teach and heal. 

He healed me. 

Then he broke me. 

But I’ll heal again. 

Like that fine Japanese pottery delicately fused back together from shattered pieces using precious gold—the art of Kintsugi. I will be put back together even more substantial, wiser, and more beautiful by the golden threads of my son’s soul.