I Hope You Don’t Understand

I hope you don’t understand.  I hope you don’t understand the gut-wrenching agony that one feels when handed a bag of their son’s belongings.  A small, plastic evidence bag containing his cross necklace, wallet, belt buckle and pocketknife.  I hope you don’t understand the utterly hollow feeling of knowing, now you are all alone in the world.  Your soulmate is gone.