Monday you can fall apart, Tuesday, Wednesday break my heart, Thursday doesn't even start
Colton and JJ were a year old. She knew because she was there when they were born. She was semi out of it from the pain, but she was there and she even remembered filling out the birth certificates because she was sure the nurses would get something wrong.
The birth certificates were framed in little blue frames with sheep on them across from their cribs and she caught herself looking at them more often than not when she was rocking them to sleep.
She made them cupcakes on their birthday and hummed happy birthday to them while they shoved their faces into the cupcakes. Manners were ill-suited for this family. Dean came in just before nine with two badly wrapped gifts and settled the boys in his lap as they unwrapped their teddy bears. The ensuing playtime had nearly knocked them out and they hadn't even asked for bottles before they fell asleep -- hugging the bears of course.
Sitting in the rocking chair, she watched as they slept and wrapped one of her sleep shirts tighter around her tank top. It still smelled like him, but she was probably just imagining that. The shirt probably didn't still smell like gunpowder and salt and sweat and aftershave.
They were a year old and she was just starting to sleep through the night but then everything crumbled. She didn't want to go through any of this again, so she didn't. She ignored it, willing it to leave her alone and safe, but she knew it wouldn't. No matter what she'd be stuck somewhere in the middle of loss.
She missed John. She didn't want to miss anyone else.
The birth certificates were framed in little blue frames with sheep on them across from their cribs and she caught herself looking at them more often than not when she was rocking them to sleep.
She made them cupcakes on their birthday and hummed happy birthday to them while they shoved their faces into the cupcakes. Manners were ill-suited for this family. Dean came in just before nine with two badly wrapped gifts and settled the boys in his lap as they unwrapped their teddy bears. The ensuing playtime had nearly knocked them out and they hadn't even asked for bottles before they fell asleep -- hugging the bears of course.
Sitting in the rocking chair, she watched as they slept and wrapped one of her sleep shirts tighter around her tank top. It still smelled like him, but she was probably just imagining that. The shirt probably didn't still smell like gunpowder and salt and sweat and aftershave.
They were a year old and she was just starting to sleep through the night but then everything crumbled. She didn't want to go through any of this again, so she didn't. She ignored it, willing it to leave her alone and safe, but she knew it wouldn't. No matter what she'd be stuck somewhere in the middle of loss.
She missed John. She didn't want to miss anyone else.