Sometimes it's the sock. The little lone sock that keeps turning up, out of place each time, only ever one. But I can't bring myself to get rid of it.
Last Friday night it was "Here Comes the Sun" playing through the speakers on our way home from the movies. The song we listened to during breakfast the first time we thought he was going home. We danced around the kitchen, his small arms flailing wildly, and giggled and I thought "I hope I always remember this."
It's a strange kind of grief, losing a child who was never "ours." Knowing that he's okay, but missing all the things that made up our ordinary days with him. A sneaky grief that creeps up and knocks the breath out of us for a second.
There's a sort of lost feeling without an anchor for our days, without the rhythms of toddler life. And there's an awareness that we're not quite ready for whatever's next.
I'm trying to live in this weird, nebulous grief, and not push it away. Instead, I'd like to feel it all and acknowledge that it mattered.
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