"Up there"

I often find myself with my head in the clouds. My thoughts are hard to hold onto when I've lost so much, It seems easier to just let them wander. At least I have my boys, I think to myself. Their playful screeches from the backyard form a smile on my distracted face. Currently, my eyes are fixed on the family portrait resting on our hallway wall, from Palm Edge beach, 2017.

There I stand, a child on each side. Garret, my oldest, is on the left, wearing one of his father's hats. He's 8 years old, 7 in this picture. On the right is Joel, age 2. His face is sour. He didn't like how the sand felt, but as soon as his big brother showed him how to make a castle, he didn't want to go home. I bribed him by telling him we could get a sandbox for the yard. A picture with both of those rowdy boys, sitting still and looking towards the camera, is a very rare treasure.

Eventually I force my eyes to look up, and there he is, my late husband Henrik, with his arm around my shoulder. His face is warm and inviting. He was always so photogenic, meanwhile I just looked angry. My smile is stiff and I have my hand over my eyes to block out the sun. Even with my scattered mind, I will never forget that day.

I gingerly stroke my stomach, extended by pregnancy. I will never forget him. He wanted us to name this next one Raphael. I've decided on Henry, in his honor. Wherever his soul is, I'm sure he doesn't resent me for this. If somehow in death he can remember our time spent together, then at least there's no way he's forgotten my stubbornness.

My distant somber thoughts are gradually sobered, replaced by a growing unease. The pit of my stomach is held tight, as if I'm falling. Pain shoots down my spine, clear to the floor. I'm a month early. Braxton Hicks, maybe? I wait in quiet for the next pain to come, praying it doesn't. Everything is silent. It makes me extremely uncomfortable. In fact, I notice with a pang of fear, I cannot even hear my children's voices anymore. I take a few steps, pushing through the pain. By the time I get around the corner, the adrenaline and paranoia has quickly built up in me, and I end up sprinting to throw open the back door.

I see them there, safe and sound. My stomach tries to relax, but another pain comes. They shouldn't be happening this fast, I think. My Garrett's a good brave leader, so I go to ask him to call 911, but my mouth is unable to form words when I look up at him.

They both appear to be hovering just inches above the ground. Their eyes are blank and solidly staring up at nothing. Their mouths are slightly agape, their limbs completely unmoving as they continue to drift upwards. I'm unsure if it's the pain or shock, but my legs simply won't move. My heart races as my eyes begin to trace small bodies rising above the neighborhood fences, some of them already above treeline. I hear my neighbor yelling out for her daughter, Shay. She has playdates with the boys every Saturday. My hand reaches for Joel, who's closer to the ground. I can feel blood and amniotic fluid pooling in my shoes. Pain envelops my entire being, my hand misses his foot and I collapse. Parents are yelling, so many names being called out at once, it's like they're creating a new name entirely. I laid there in pain, watching as bodies disappeared through the ozone.

It's been 5 years since that day. In fact, today is Henry's first day of school. He's anxious about it, as am I. Since then society has tried to adapt, day by day, little by little, but it's still as if everyone is holding their breath. Such an unexplained horrifying cosmic event in which we lost our children, 1/5th of the world's population, the world cannot cope with that easily, if at all. Many parents couldn't live with the circumstances, even those without children were often too afraid to continue on. The kids that made it are struggling, trying to live in a world that they know is supposed to have more people like them, but somehow doesn't. They struggle to understand why they 'float', and they struggle harder when a question as simple as that makes their parents break down, much like a child themselves, for they know not the answer. That day wasn't like a terrorist attack, or a nuclear meltdown, or even a world war. We all lost something that day, and the hardest part is the constant wondering of what we lost to.