I used to have a little girl. The fairest of them all. A cuddler, a fighter, everything I had hoped for. I used to be a mother, to carry her, to feed her, to change her diapers. I was the moon to her sun, and never away from her. But not anymore.
The things I’ve seen and the things I’ve heard, they can’t be translated. When I try to remember, it’s like it happened to somebody else. When I look at the pictures, all the characters have changed. The baby dead and the husband gone and the girl with the long blond hair – she doesn’t even look like me anymore.
I remember being in love. Breathing in each other’s faces. I remember sleeping together. Your tiny body spread across the hospital bed. I remember you were my life, and knowing you would not survive. Feeling cut open like a fish, but not anymore.
We lived without you, as in a field of ruins. Careful not to build back anything. I put glass domes over ashes, over every memory. Waiting for the day I’d find you in your crib. Or someone would ring the bell, and you’d be at the door. I used to go to bed, praying I wouldn’t wake up in the morning. I don’t anymore.
I made peace with your death, that felt like renouncement. And when I loved again, it tasted like treason. There’s a closeness in pain I was clinging to. I didn’t want to heal,I didn’t want to be okay. I thought I’d rather live in the past we shared anyway. But not anymore.
Happiness is terrifying, in it’s own way. I never wanted to breathe again, if it meant you’d fade away. But there’s still a hole in my life, that’s just the size of you. A baby ghost by my side, that only we can see. A silence in our house, that’s louder than you’d think. There’s a missing piece that remains part of the puzzle. And that, my girl – is forevermore
- Love After Loss – Part II - February 10, 2017
- Love After Loss – Part I - February 8, 2017
- Sorry Not Sorry - January 23, 2017