For most of my life blood/guts/vomit has grossed me out. I used to gag at the site of my own poop. As I got older I got better, and as I had children I got a lot better. Still I wasn't one to touch blood with my bear hands. Yet when it happened, nothing could hold me back from touching him and kissing him.
In my kitchen, under the shelves we put up for all things Bram including his ashes, a brown paper bag sits on top a box. In the box are his clothes, the things we remember him in the most; letters and cards from the out pouring of love we received in the weeks and months following his death. And in that brown paper bag are the clothes from that day. I'm tempted to add pictures, and maybe I will edit this post in the future when I'm brave enough to look at the clothes again.
They cut the clothes from him, he forgot to wear underware. There is blood, and gravel, his hair, his flesh. I've been ridiculed for keeping these pieces of clothing, but it's the last things to touch his living body. I don't like remembering his body as a dead thing. It's weird what death does to the body, how it gets stiff, how it's cold, how it feels like stone and yet feels exactly the same. The face changes, and it changed more because of the damage of the wreck. I wish we hadn't cremated him. I wish we had just frozen him so I could hold him whenever I want. That's morbid and insane, but grieving your child is just as insane.
I was covered in his blood that day, his blood that came from my blood, his blood that exists in me. I can't let go of the things with him on them. Even the ugly things.