One hundred and twenty-three days I’ve said "Goodnight Harry, I love you" to his empty room.
Not once have I received an answer, and yet I so yearn to hear his voice, I could almost manifest my beloved son out of thin air.
Watch: Sophie Smith on parenting and coping after loss. Post continues below.
It’s four months today since he was killed, on a day like any other spring day in the Adelaide Hills. He took his motorbike out for a ride to his dad’s, and on the way home, he must have decided to try for a burst of freedom before his busy working week. He detoured to some gravel country roads, and within 15 minutes, he was dead.
Harry, my feisty, shy and serious firstborn, had just turned 19.
It’s been a journey to hell and halfway back since then. I’ve howled and sobbed, I’ve exercised in fresh air and nature, I’ve written thousands of words to heal my aching heart… and I’ve visited psychic mediums.
It’s been a couple of decades since I’ve lived and breathed a fascination with the spiritual.
I’ve never been religious and was raised an atheist, and yet in my late teens I felt a calling towards eastern philosophy. During my child-raising years, my feet were firmly immersed in Mother Earth, but now, when my home echoes with his absence, I find myself obsessed with the Afterlife.
I watch hour after hour of testimonials, documentaries and interviews, recalling the books that surrounded me in my twenties, and supplementing that foundation with new books about the soul’s journey and what happens after death.
Like me, other grieving parents I’ve met ask the most significant question of our lives: where is my child?