It's been two months since my son, Hamnet, died. He was only eleven and I regret not being there for him. I've been so involved with the theater and writing that I've completely ignored my family. Ironically, just today, I received word that my application for my family's coat of arms was finally approved. My father had first applied more than twenty years ago but was denied. This was my chance to provide my son with our family crest. It was my one gift to him and now he's gone.
I'm currently working on a new play, King John, and one of my characters, a mother, suffers from intense grief over her son's death. It reminded me of my own son and I wrote these words.
Grief fills the room up of my absent child,
Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me,
Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,
Remembers me of all his gracious parts,
Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form.
I may have not always been there, but I loved my son as well as my other children very deeply, and pain will remain for a long time.
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