For many years, I thought Beth blamed me for the loss of our son, and she believed I hated her for the sacrifice he made. Neither of us thought we could measure up to the other’s grief, but over time we learned that wasn’t what we needed. The loss would never be healed, but that shared grief bound us, and although we could never be substitutes for Elliot, we could make life better for each other. So we did. We focused on the good we could do for each other, rather than the ways in which we failed to fill the void left by our son. We worked hard, and slowly we learned there was a life beyond the pain.
We live on the edge of Tasman Bay on South Island in New Zealand, and it’s as close to paradise as I could have ever hoped to get. We watch the sun go down over the hills each evening, and think of our son out there somewhere.
Even as a physicist with decades of scientific training, I used to think of Elliot stuck in a never-ending loop, a cycle of suffering. It wasn’t until I found the letters that I knew about his life with Harri. Now that I understand more about the true nature of time, I feel a greater sense of peace with the sacrifice he made. I embrace the block theory of the universe, because if time doesn’t pass, if all moments exist simultaneously, my son and his love are out there right now, somewhere in the gathered multitude of moments, watching the sun go down from their own house. Each evening, Beth and I like to raise a glass to the horizon and think of our child doing the same, still alive, still happy, living with Harri in the Elsewhere House.
She’s calling me again, and I can see the sky turning pink, so I really must go. Before I do, I hope you’ll indulge me and allow me to go back to the beginning. I want to show the courage that still makes me so proud.
Think of Elliot when your life is hard.
I find it helps.
Perhaps you will too.