I know this is a bit late. I know other baby loss mama's and daddy's are done this post and maybe no one even cares what I have to say anymore.
After all, it is early July and the sun is shining and melting away the remains of winter on my heart. It is a season for beaches and eating raspberries from the pail and bare feet.
And yet, when I left this blog for a time, back when I was only beginning to see signs of spring in my heart, I was asked by a dear friend of mine to return every once in a while.
So I'm making good on my promise and returning (Though no promises on how long I'll stay, Jen!)
***
It's July and even though it's sunny and flowers are popping up out of the garden in my backyard, today is not sunny. Today it is raining and windy and I spent the day in bed with a good book; a book about loss, love and two woman. One is a mother who lost her son, the other a woman whose husband left her. I can relate to both of these women. I am both of these women. My daughter is dead and my lover is gone and I am the shadows of these women.
When I started this post, preparing to title it, I wrote down 8 months. It took me a minute before I realize it's been nine months, will be ten in six days. Has it really been that long without her? How have I gotten from there (a grieving, sobbing, hysterical woman who wouldn't get up off the bedroom floor) to here (a somewhat less hysterical but still grieving woman who wanders through life but still periodically returns to the bedroom floor). I don't understand how its been this long. It feels like just yesterday and also like forever ago and I know this is cliché to say. Its supposed to feel like this, I think, its time. And yet I am still stuck in a state of disbelief.
***
I haven't scattered her ashes yet, in case you're wondering. I thought about it. I know where I want them to be. I feel more ready than I did a few months ago, when I first considered the idea. I have everything all planned out, which feels vaguely morbid. And yet something doesn't feel quite right and so her ashes continue to sit on my shelf in a little jar tied with a pretty pink ribbon.
***
I talked to her last night. In my busy life its so easy to push past it, to nod to her presence as I run past her memory, doing what needs to be done. Its easy to say, "Good girl. Good Mia. Good staying still and being quiet while Mommy gets her work done." But in the last few days the missing her has become something fierce and so I will sit and acknowledge her. So I was talking to her last night and I was asking her things like why she is here and who she was and why me.
I don't think I have all the answers yet. She doesn't seem to want to answer me and I can picture her in my head, a spicy little girl, giving me the silent treatment. But I believe she came to me for a reason: to teach me about love, and to help me find my voice, and also to help me learn to live again. Maybe its just me but I think my dead daughter saved my life.
***
It will be 10 months soon. 10! double digits! I am approaching it carefully, like I imagined I would approach her tenth birthday, with a great deal of nostalgia and wistful longing. And while I am excited for 10 months, then 11, for the first year to finally be over, I am content to sit in this single digit stage for just a little while longer.
I love you, my sweet.
***
And that's where I am today. I'm doing ok. I'm speaking my truth, even when its hard, something my daughter taught me, and her father. I'm telling her story and his story and my story, and how they all intersected, and talking about life and love and connection to groups of people. I haven't gone far yet, but I hope to. Some days, after sharing her story, I am so exhausted. I run a warm bath and step into it and think about everything. I don't feel worthy of love, of her story, of his story, of my story. And even if I say it a million times it won't bring back my loves. Their legacy isn't in my story, but in me. I am the monument of their lives. And so I will live and love and speak for them. They are woven into the fabric of my being and I have to trust that.
There's dinner to be made tonight and laundry to be done and a house to be cleaned for my brother's birthday tomorrow. But I think I'll sit here for just a moment longer and read about a mother who lost her son and a woman who lost her lover, and find myself woven into the pattern of them.
We are all connected.
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