I don't know if any of you have heard of The Mynabirds, but they are currently one of my FAVOURITE bands. This particular song, Mightier Than the Sword, always makes me cry and I felt like telling the story that comes to my mind when I listen to it. 

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It was the first snow of the season, it fell from the sky like ash in a thick and lazy drift that coated the ground. It made me eager and happy, it made me buzz with anticipation. I knew Christmas had never been the best time of year for our family, but as I looked out at the lights on our street, glowing through the darkness and the snow I couldn't help but feel like maybe this year would be different.

As I watched the falling snow, I smiled to myself and sipped hot chocolate with marshmallows. I noticed you trudging closer to the house, and I excitedly poured a hot steaming mug-full for you. You were getting older, and hardly had time to spend with your mother but for some reason I just knew you'd want to celebrate the snow with me. We loved the snow, you and I, every year we played in it together but this year would prove to be different.

You came in and I nearly dropped your mug when I noticed your black eye, "Boys will be boys," Your father said and I reluctantly agreed. You didn't want to talk about it anyway, you got embarrassed when I showed concern and told me not to worry about it, you said it wasn't a problem. So I brushed it off and offered you ice, which you unceremoniously refused.

Dinner was served in the living room that night, again. All I've ever wanted was a nice meal at the table, you know, like a real family. As always, your father won that round though and we sat around the television, bathed in its hypnotic azure glow, with our meatloaf in our laps.

…Meatloaf…again…why didn't I make something more interesting? More exciting? Maybe if dinner had been pad thai, or eggplant parmesan; something new might have convinced you it was worth it…

"Another young person has left us today," I noticed you watching the reporter intensely, I thought maybe you thought she was pretty. "Alexander Creighton took his life just days before his sixteenth birthday."

An image of the boy's face appeared on the screen. He was your age and the way you looked at his photo I figured maybe you might have known him.

"Creighton's fellow classmates have said that the boy was bullied at school because of his sexuality," As the pretty blond lady continued her story, I saw the pain in your eyes intensify.

"Are you okay?" I asked and you waved a hand to dismiss my question. Why couldn't I see it then? Why didn't I feel your pain, isn't that what a good mother would do? Use her empathy to understand, to know innately that something was wrong? A mother is supposed to have a connection with her child, a bond that transcends spoken words.

"School officials have declined to comment on allegations that the boy's bullies were never punished for their actions, simply stating that pending an investigation they would like to remain silent on the issue."

Tears welled in your eyes and you put down your fork. I wanted to follow as you stormed up to your room but your father said not to, he told me you'd come back when you were hungry. He wasn't surprised you were crying, he felt like crying too every time I served meatloaf. Why did I listen to him? I shouldn't have finished watching the news before going to check on you, I should have realized nothing was more important than you at that moment.

I felt it as I climbed the stairs; the way the air grew thick with emotion and time slowed to a crawl. An inner turmoil bubbled just under my skin and raised to a boil as I reached the second floor landing. Should I have asked more questions? Could I have been more understanding?

Did you hear their voices when you did it? Was the pain of each cut just the reflection of the pain you felt inside? As you sliced into your veins could you see their angry faces, or was it me you thought about? Were you cursing me for not seeing your perpetual struggle? For not comforting you like a mother should?

When I heard you fall I knew I was too late. As I entered your room all I could see was the blood, the thick red liquid that coated your dresser and painted your mirror with horrible words that dripped like splattered molasses and smelled like iron and death.

How many times had you heard those words? Was today the first, or had it happened before? Why hadn't I noticed? Maybe I could have stopped you…

I found you lying on the floor. Your eyes rolled back as I held you tight and in your delirium you apologized for making such a mess. "It's not your fault," I whispered tenderly into your ear, "I love you." My voice cracked and I felt your tight grip loosen, "Please, don't die! Don't leave me here alone, I love you…"

It was like my words filled you with life, you grabbed hold of me again and cried in my arms, "I'm sorry," you whispered, "I don't want to die…"

If only your words were enough, if only mine had come sooner. Like their words had hurt you, mine were enough to soothe you. No words could have stopped your life from fading, though, nothing I could have said would have sealed your wounds and kept you here, with me, forever.

I held on to you as you slipped away, the sound of sirens grew closer but not quick enough. I felt hands prying you from my grip as the paramedics filled your room. In a haze of emotionless pain, numb to everything but my loss, I allowed the strong hands to take you away. Only mildly aware of the blood that covered me, I tried to cry but tears didn't come. 

I was taken outside with you, a blanket wrapped over my shoulders. I heard commanding voices talking about shock and as I felt the cool air on my flesh tears finally came pouring down my face.

The lights of the ambulance shone off the snow, they mixed with the lights on the houses and I couldn't tell anymore if they were celebrating the season or mourning my loss. Blood dripped from your body and mine and stained the snow, its warmth melting the flakes beneath us. I became lost in the bloody contrast of red and white and as I realized what was happening the doors were slammed shut behind you, locking you in a white coffin of metal, plastic and glass, with wheels which were itching to take you away.

I thought about the snow, you always loved the snow. I remembered you as a child, imagined that shorter, younger version of you there at my side. Snow angles and sledding, pinks noses and cheeks.

The blanket fell from my shoulders and I rushed forward, pounding on the side of the ambulance as I screamed into the night. I cried as your father pulled me away, he whispered about the neighbours and I didn't care. I could see them in their windows, standing on their front steps and watching as I broke down.

"What a pity…" I could imagine them saying.

"He was such a nice boy…"

"And so close to Christmas too…"

Were they blaming me? Did they see I could have been a better mother? Did they know I served you meatloaf for your final meal, that I wasn't creative enough to cook you something new, or that we didn't eat like a regular family? Maybe their children had picked on you, threw those bloody words from your mirror at you without thinking…

I should have seen it coming, I could have said the words that you'd forgotten.

I love you.

Don't leave me.

You're not alone.

It gets better…