the touch of time
When I came home on my break from work I went straight to my room and layed down on my bed. I'm just so tired lately. It was really warm today so our bedroom window was open to catch the cooling breeze of the evening. The wind was blowing around Abby's wind chime at the front of the house and I closed my eyes to just listen to it. Sometimes she feels so far away from me.
My thoughts are so muddled these days. Life is pulling me along and I'm trying not to resist. For most of the year, I move along doing the things I need to do, but now that Abby's birthday is coming closer, I need to make some time for her. I want to step out of Life for a few minutes, for a few days. Almost every other day of the year I devote every waking moment to Jack and the girls, I don't think it's wrong to want to take some time to remember Abby, who isn't here physically to demand my time and attention. I know there are people who think I shouldn't dwell on my pain and grief, but that's not what I'm doing. I just need to allow myself to feel the pain, to face my grief, instead of pushing it aside the way I usually do. Life is busy, people need me, there isn't time to grieve.
I find myself longing to to be back in those days surrounding Abby's birth and death, when she felt so physically close to me. My postpartum body was a constant reminder that I had just given birth, that Abby was real. When I wasn't doing school work, wasn't working, and no one expected much from me. Grieving for Abby consumed so much of my time, but still less than a new baby would have, if she had lived. Visiting the cemetery every day that first summer was a comfort. The pain and grief connected me to her somehow, kept her memory fresh and foremost in my mind, the way a newborn baby would normally demand my physical and mental energy. Sometimes she felt so close, as though I could reach into the ground and take her out anytime I wanted, even though I knew I never could, and never should. I wanted to reach in and get her, as if she was sleeping in a deep crib, instead of decaying in the ground.
Three years isn't really such a long time, but when I think in terms of how those years have affected Abby's physical body, it breaks my heart. Time leaves gentle marks on living flesh, but it is much less kind to tender flesh that has died. I know it's grisly, but I can't stop thinking about the Abby that I know, her physical body. All the hours I've spent stroking Charlotte's soft skin, kissing her squishy cheeks, brushing her silky hair with my hands - I should have had all that with Abby too. Instead, Abby's buttery baby skin, silky hair, and marshmallow cheeks have been discarded, put in the ground to decay. I ache for her, everyday.
My thoughts are so muddled these days. Life is pulling me along and I'm trying not to resist. For most of the year, I move along doing the things I need to do, but now that Abby's birthday is coming closer, I need to make some time for her. I want to step out of Life for a few minutes, for a few days. Almost every other day of the year I devote every waking moment to Jack and the girls, I don't think it's wrong to want to take some time to remember Abby, who isn't here physically to demand my time and attention. I know there are people who think I shouldn't dwell on my pain and grief, but that's not what I'm doing. I just need to allow myself to feel the pain, to face my grief, instead of pushing it aside the way I usually do. Life is busy, people need me, there isn't time to grieve.
I find myself longing to to be back in those days surrounding Abby's birth and death, when she felt so physically close to me. My postpartum body was a constant reminder that I had just given birth, that Abby was real. When I wasn't doing school work, wasn't working, and no one expected much from me. Grieving for Abby consumed so much of my time, but still less than a new baby would have, if she had lived. Visiting the cemetery every day that first summer was a comfort. The pain and grief connected me to her somehow, kept her memory fresh and foremost in my mind, the way a newborn baby would normally demand my physical and mental energy. Sometimes she felt so close, as though I could reach into the ground and take her out anytime I wanted, even though I knew I never could, and never should. I wanted to reach in and get her, as if she was sleeping in a deep crib, instead of decaying in the ground.
Three years isn't really such a long time, but when I think in terms of how those years have affected Abby's physical body, it breaks my heart. Time leaves gentle marks on living flesh, but it is much less kind to tender flesh that has died. I know it's grisly, but I can't stop thinking about the Abby that I know, her physical body. All the hours I've spent stroking Charlotte's soft skin, kissing her squishy cheeks, brushing her silky hair with my hands - I should have had all that with Abby too. Instead, Abby's buttery baby skin, silky hair, and marshmallow cheeks have been discarded, put in the ground to decay. I ache for her, everyday.