I want Zachary.
I want to feel his grip tighten around my neck when the hay ride lurches forward, unexpected. I want to dress him in his first puffer jacket, see him laughing and kicking his feet through falling leaves. I want to watch him twist and pull an apple from a tree, taste the sweet crisp fruit, right there in the same orchard where his older brother did. I want to interrupt his naptime, gently tell him we need to walk down the street to retrieve C.T. from school. I want to see his tired eyes, his crankiness, melt away with the excitement of seeing his brother. I want to wipe his runny nose, mend his cuts and scrapes. I want to take him to pick out balloons to release, presents to donate, a cake, in memory of B.W. I want to bring him with me to care for, and say goodbye to, his dying grandfather.
Where are the people who prayed? Where are the people who assured me he was going to be fine? Where are the people who told me the story of their much-sicker child who survived? Where are they, damnit?
What do they have to say now, 20 months later?
I want this Zachary-shaped hole filled. Unfasten the shackles from my wrists and ankles so that I can go and find my boy. Release me from this agony.