I have sat here struggling with what to write.

I want to convey the beauty and the spirit of someone who was taken all too soon.

I want to say SOMETHING, I guess, that is profound, that impacts on the people who read this post, in the same way that Finbar impacted on me, on us as a family.

But there are no words, only the sense of love and joy at the wonder of my son and the ache that I can not hold him and must wait a while until I see him again.

I reflect on the way Finbar is just very very much alive in our family. How his name is mentioned regularly by his ‘older by 2 minutes’ twin brother (I think Liam would have had it made known on a regular basis, he is the older twin) How Celtic Dingo uses Finbar’s name in play. How Finbar Mouse (one of Finbar’s toys that I gave to Celtic Lad and named Finbar Mouse by him) is one of the main toys constantly in use. I love the way the children feel free to ask anything they need to know about Finbar.

Apart from the fact he is not physically here, nothing else seems different.

This year, CL decided to make the day ’special’. He shared how he wanted the day to go. It involves having a special dinner with some friends. He wants me to say something. I want to honour both the boys and have always known that one day CL would make it known how he wants his twin acknowledged. I think it is just lovely how CL has been able to voice his wants/needs for today. He told me last night at dinner, that today has to be special because it is 11 years and Finbar lived 11 days.

This year is significant in that the boys were born on a Monday and Finbar died on the Friday.

As always, the Universe sends me ‘extra reminders’ around this time. This year, it ‘just happened’ that I had an appointment with the Paed and Celtic Dingo. We sat in an office, yesterday evening, directly one floor from where my son’s short life came to an end. There was a peace and comfort in knowing that. I remember sitting there holding my boy on Thursday evening. How we were rejoicing that the brain scan revealed all the swelling had gone down. I thought this meant he would be ok. The nurse was sitting with us. She explained how Finbar would never live past 5 years, how he would need 24 hour care, how respite care would mean him coming into hospital.

Jock and I lay in bed that night and made plans for the next 5 years to be as wonderful as possible.

Instead, the next morning, we were woken by a phone call at 6.45am, asking us to come into the hospital. We wouldn’t be having 5 years. We had the morning with him. At 11.40am, Finbar’s stats dropped, the alarms went off and the nurse came in. Jock held Finbar as he was taken to another world and another life, a world were he has gotten to grow up with no pain or suffering. I remember distinctly kneeling beside him and whispering “Son, God is going to come for you soon. And when he does, we need you to go. We love you, we will miss you. We will always remember you and we will see you again.”

So today, I remember our little warrior who fought so hard to stay. He lives in Tir na NOg, the Land of Forever Young. We named our property Tir na NOg. He lives here with us, very much alive in our hearts, very much alive in the wind that blows, in the sun that sends its warmth down. There is a tree that I used to dream about, where I would stand and watch my son running and playing in Heaven’s Playground. There is that exact tree on the border of our property.

Finbar, rún mo chroí, we remember you and your all too short life today. While we desparately wish it had been longer, we remember the time we had with you with much love.  Until we see you again in the stillness of forever.