These days – the hardest of the year, the ones that remind me as if it were yesterday of your definitive absence from this world – I was reluctant to create a new entry in this blog. A blog that has helped me immensely: to show the world who Oscar is, to unload my pain, to express my rage, or simply to talk with you, my boy – in any case, to speak of the greatest love I have ever felt: for my children.

The more time passes, the more aware I am of the shock I went through – numb, encouraging others and on the surface, making it through the hardest days of my life without feeling pain. It wasn’t until much later that I was able to truly understand what that whole storm meant.

Today marks two years since I gave you your last kiss. A cold kiss, with no response. A hard kiss, full of pain. Today we made our way to the church to say our final goodbye. A procession accompanied by a group of motorcycles – your aunt’s and her friends’ bikes roaring the whole way, echoing the feeling in our hearts, that rage of having to say goodbye. Not long after, I had “until we meet again” tattooed on my skin.

Two years on, my journey is more aware than ever that you are gone – sometimes marked by the pain of absence, the kind that can’t be explained because there are no words for it, the kind of absence that only those who endure it morning, noon and night, can truly understand. Other times, it’s filled with the hope of feeling you again, with the awareness that time in this life is short, that we’re only here for a little while, that we’re so very small, and that you simply left before I did – just a little earlier.

I acknowledge that I’m overwhelmed with anger when I see the damage that was done to us – especially to my family, not so much to me; I deal with that in my own way. But when I think about how our lives have changed, what happened in that operating room and how it would go on to affect an entire family and friends, I can’t forgive.

I’m not ashamed to admit it – I can’t forgive that they stole my daughter’s dream. Her hopes, and the struggle to find her path, have become so difficult that I feel anger and rage toward those who have no idea what it meant not to care for Oscar at that moment – a procedure that was supposed to be simple, brief, and without consequences.

Consequences – that’s what have been etched into our souls forever. They destroyed his future and ours, stole dreams and plans for a path yet to be taken. I cannot forgive what happened to my loved ones’ health – the body internalizes, suffers, and brings to the surface what the heart doesn’t know how to heal.

Rage, so much rage that I don’t analyze, justify, or excuse; I only know that I live with it, and in a way, it gives me the strength to face moments I never imagined I’d have to live through. On the other hand, the energy Oscar has stirred in so many hearts gives me the opportunity to grow, to learn, and to adapt to my life.

Resilience fights to find a place in my skin, the skin that trembles when tears flow from missing him so much. Thanks to the love that Oscar left behind, I believe in humanity and in the love of many people who help us feel moments of calm and peace. I believe in everyone’s effort to feel better during the time we have here in this world, before we go to be with Oscar – that much is clear to me.

But how hard it is not to miss you, to wake up in the morning and see your baby photo in your sister’s arms or posing in the sunset, both of you looking like you were ready to take on the world. Every morning, every night.

It’s been two years since we entered the church of Sant Just, embraced behind you, together with Max and all those who wanted to be united with you – it’s impossible to understand that madness.

I remember Irina’s voice, giving us a few moments of shared feeling, and David’s piano notes filled with love. I remember the shining eyes of your friends, our friends. I remember.

“Why did it take us so long to be able to bury him?” my mother asked me a few days ago. How could I explain to her just how terribly the hospital staff handled everything? On Wednesday, March 29th, we went in, only to come out a few hours later. And on Wednesday, April 5th, we laid your body to rest in the cemetery – through tears, along a path of flowers and messages of love.  “In the memory of a kid, no one ever dies.”

Neither the information, nor the timing, nor the humanity, not even the intention of donation were respected.

And these days come back effortlessly, as if it had been yesterday. Memory is very selective – there are images that are impossible to forget.

Despite all the pain, despite there being days when the sun doesn’t rise, when the tears are hidden; there are moments of light, loving hugs that give me life. I still believe that the spontaneous, silly part of me comes from you – that part that connected us, and no one will ever be able to take from us. They already took enough.

Let me ask you a question: if you could go back in time to one day in your life and relive just one moment, which one would it be?