Missing David

My nephew David - my twin sister's first child - died on June 29, 2005 from a brain tumor that grew and grew and grew and eventually snuffed out his life. He was 6 years, 1 month, two weeks old. I found him. His mom had tucked him in, kissed him and told him she was the luckiest mommy in the world to have him as her son, to have a boy like him who was so wonderful and special. She left and was downstairs on the telephone when I came in at about 8:15 - finally arriving after having been at a work function. I wanted to leave that event earlier but it was work, there were people I needed to meet, and the trains just didn't come often enough. So I got the one that arrived around 8:15, and rushed to get to the house. I knew. I just knew something was going to happen that day. And when I saw Alana laughing on the telephone, I thought it was OK, nothing bad happened. So I went upstairs to say goodnight - first to Julia who was with her Daddy reading stories. Then, I went into David's room, knelt down by his bed - really, a mattress on the floor because that's what he wanted - and kissed him, saying "good night, sweet David." Then I noticed that his eyes were half open. So I called his name a little louder, touched his shoulder and gently shook him, watching for him to wake up, to respond, to acknowledge me, to know that Auntie Julie was there. I learned later that he'd been asking for me all day and evening. And I wasn't there. I think he must have known I was there, heard me come in. At least I hope so. I so hope he knew I was there. Alana thinks he died knowing I was there and it was OK to go. Oh yes, she had said to him that he could go, she would be OK. I am crying so hard when I'm writing this, making so many typos I then go back and correct. I can't sleep tonight for missing him, for grief. I opened a drawer and saw his little sweatpants that I kept because I need a piece of him with me. And he'll always be that size. He'll never grow up. Never. It's beyond words. I miss him so much. I am engulfed by grief. I worked so hard at that damn job. I stopped crying after a while because I had shut down there, become invisible - even to myself. Now I'm free to cry, and I do. I went to the cemetary a couple weeks ago and just cried and cried so deeply sitting on that beautiful bench, looking at the words on the footstone "David Leland Coble, Best Boy in the World." And the worst thing about all this is that I don't feel entitled to this grief. I'm just his aunt. But that's not how I feel. I feel he was my child. I was with him almost every day for the two years of his illness, and was there a lot before, too. He was my boy. I was the "almost mom." He'd call me Mommy a lot - mostly because I look so much like his mommy, but I also think I behaved like a mommy to him, I loved him like a mommy, I would have done anything to protect and save him, like a mommy. I have been blessed to feel that I would give my life to save his. And the futility of that wish, that desire is deadly. I feel myself go numb. I find it so hard to accept that David is really not coming back. I know it, I see the grave, I hear the absent footsteps and silenced voice, I feel the empty arms and loadless back.