He looked as though he were sleeping, his pale skin resting perfectly in place, his arms folded gently across his chest, and his soft red lips closed together tightly. I tried to envision all of the possible scenarios in which he would be there, lying serenely in his Size 6 suit, eyes shut, and surrounded by his favorite toys. I tried and tried, but I simply could not do it. He was dead. This was his funeral. He was not sleeping. I was not about to give him a kiss goodnight. No, instead, I was about to give him a kiss goodbye.
I remember standing in front of everyone at the service, tears racing down my cheeks, telling them all of my deep love for him, and finally pressing play on the slideshow I had prepared for the day. As the photos flashed by and Billy Holiday’s voice struck the first note of “I’ll Be Seeing You,” I felt his hand in mine, as we raced down the beach. I could hear his contagious laugh and see his big, bright smile, the one I had not seen in over a week now. I could not comprehend the fact that this boy, this sweet, generous, caring boy, whom I had enjoyed an ice cream cone with just days before, was now gone forever.
Perhaps the most painful of it all was seeing that far-too-small, brown, wooden box descend into the earth, where it would remain eternally. Even now, over two years later, I can still feel the immense pain that I felt in that moment, as I whispered, “I love you” for the final time. These three little words are to be rather expected at a funeral, but for me, they meant far more than their actual meaning.
As a child, I often struggled with the words “I love you,” both hearing them from others and reciting them, myself. I’d just never been terribly affectionate. I even, at age five, constructed an acronym for “love you, baby” just because I could not find the courage to actually articulate it. It was not until Max arrived that I began to feel comfortable with the phrase. His immense lovingness showed me how to love and be loved. In essence, the first time that I said and actually meant “I love you” was at Max’s second birthday party. Being that his birthday was in June, we were in California, where we had always spent the summer, for this joyous event. The table held about twenty people, quite a lot of friends for someone who’s just beginning to talk! I had decided a few days before that I wanted to deliver a speech of sorts. I wrote two pages on my Lilly Pulitzer flowered paper, and right before dinner concluded, I did my best to clear my throat and click my plastic cup. The majority of my “speech” consisted of funny anecdotes that I’d rehashed in hopes of being the comedian of the night. After boring my audience for five or so minutes, I ended my speech with, “Maxie, I can’t believe you’re already two! I love you sooo much, and I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
On July 16th, 2011, the day that Max passed away, it occurred to me that the hypothetical situation that I had proposed in my speech four years earlier was actually being answered. And the verdict was, I didn’t know. I didn’t know what I was going to do without him, without his beaming smile, without his never-ending care for others, and without his cherry lollipop-dyed lips telling me, “I love you”. Even after two years, I still don’t know. I miss Maxie more than words could ever tell, but every time I say those three words, I am reminded that he, this sweet little boy, was the one who taught me how to say them.