When you were born in 1993, friends gave us a small blue spruce to celebrate your arrival. You kept us busy as a baby, so we planted it with little thought. To be honest, the tree grew without us giving it nourishment or irrigation. Like you, the spruce was a strong seedling.
It continued to grow after we left Mistover the first time. To our delight, it greeted us when we repurchased the property in 2013.
Today the spruce represents so much more. It is 27 years old, just like you.
I dream that its branches grow tall to reach the moon and the stars.
I dream that one day it will touch you with its soft leaves and gentle sway.
That you might climb down its sturdy branches to say hello.
And like the rustle of the trees, you are in every whisper of my mind.
I'm so scared I won't hear you.
I have learnt lots of things since you left us:
It is a fact that true family means being surrounded by those who allow you a voice and neither abandon you nor judge you.
It is discovering that the generation of nieces and nephews, your cousins, surround us with a love that is generous, uncomplicated and healing.
It is finding that true friends resurface to stay by your side when you need them most.
It is having my sister and my oldest school friend as my best friends.
It is the witness of seeing your own two sisters grow more extraordinary and caring every day, keeping you close by their sides in every decision they make.
It is seeing companionship and love as I watch Rob wander down the paddock, a beautiful wolfhound nuzzling at his hand, always thinking of you, Sarah and Harriet.
It is the promise of joys to come, where you will be included in every moment of those joys.
Recently I listened to a young person like you, another person who received the Fontan procedure. Another person dealing with the anxiety of this complex cardiac condition. 'We are writing the book as we go because we are living into adulthood for the first time,' she said.
But I wanted you to be in more chapters of that book, to fill the empty pages.
You have changed the way Australian hospitals approach transition William. It is not the way any of us wanted that to happen. But it is something and will improve the lives of those who come after you so that they have a better chance to stay Heart Strong.
I love and miss you beautiful boy.
Every second of every hour of every day.
Love you so much. xxxx 21 September 2020, the sixth anniversary.
William and Ros, Barcelona, 2012