A year ago, like each of them, there were days when he did not cross my mind.
They are always in the heart, but not always in the mind.
In this past year it seems like every day brings a thought and a memory of him.
Was he special? Did I love him more – more than his sister and brothers? When they see my tears, do they think I loved him more?
None is special; or rather, each is special. Each has an inscape in which I delight. I celebrate them all and them each.
Death has picked him out, not love. Death has made him special. His is special in my grieving. When I give thanks I mention all five; when I lament, I mention only him. Wounded love is special love, special in its wound. Now I think of him every day; before, I did not. Of the five, only he has a grave.
Nicholas Wolterstorff, Lament For A Son, Spire 1989, pg. 59