Fantasy

There is still so much about this grief that I cannot comprehend.  So many complex pain points swirl around and around in my head, rendering me unable to think of anything else.  Layers of embitterment seem to grow and calcify as reality sinks in.  Sometimes it feels like it's edging out the beauty that I know existed in our brief two weeks with him.  A desperate series of questions, with no answers and no chance for meaningful resolution, has me on circular loop.   
 
Why didn't they listen to me? 
Why did I leave him that night?
Did I really not bring my baby boy home from the hospital?
Was that me who allowed them to remove his life support?
Should we have waited longer for a miracle?
How is this my life?
 
I sometimes fantasize that the life I'm living now is actually the dream.  I imagine that Zachary reappears.  In our home, at his current age.  We are at the kitchen table having dinner and suddenly our dead boy is there, alive in the flesh, in his infant car seat.  All three of us are stunned.  A commanding voice tells us we should forget the events of January 20 and beyond.  That a terrible mistake has been made and our son has been returned to us.  Of course, we recognize him - now eight and 1/2 months old - and take him into our arms without asking another question.  I don't even think about asking if B.W. will return.  I don't want to get greedy.  I am overcome with pure joy, as I kiss all over Zachary's precious face.  I am not bothered at all that I have missed eight months of his life.  We start living our life again immediately.  Together.  

I guess it's a coping mechanism, a moment's break from the relentlessly intense pain of coming to terms with Zachary's death.