Until I Do Not

I’ve had a few months now to put a little distance between myself our second Life lost and I’m starting to feel like talking about it a little.   Maybe it’s because of the change in the weather and the promise that warm and sunny days are on the way, but my mind is starting to clear of this fog I’ve been living in for the last several months.  Most days go by now without some sort of trigger to my grief, although there isn’t a day that I don’t think about Them.    I’m healing, and it’s good.

Today, while on my walk during my lunch hour I realized that  I would have been 6 months along already.   My instinct was to quickly shut this thought out of my mind, but I couldn’t do it.  I let my mind wander back to where I was just before Thanksgiving.  I started to think about the names I’d been writing over and over in pen to see if they looked as nice as they sounded.  Beautiful names.  I thought about the nursery I was designing in my mind– vintage, eclectic, old and new.  I remembered the pair of maternity pants I’d purchased the weekend before it all ended, again.  I let myself feel what it would be like if I was still carrying this Life and imagined what I would look like walking during that lunch hour at 6 months pregnant.  It was good.

It’s hard to let yourself re-live what is lost and even though it’s awkward and it hurts, I need to cherish the few memories I do have.  I need to honor their Lives.

Robin

 

 

Tree of Life

Until I Do Not– written by Jennifer Saunders
I walk past the park where you did not
play
and did not toss stones into the shallow
pond
laughing as the ripples ran outward to stir the
leaves
on the surface.
I glance away from the school you did not
attend
and did not skip jump across the hopscotch patch chalked on the
asphalt
shrieking with the girls when the boys stole your
stones
from the squares.
I do not hold your hand
or braid your hair
or know the color of your eyes.
And I am happy, most days, until
I do not kiss your cheek and half catch the whorl
of your ear
and a strand of your hair
with my lips.
Then this lavender-scented sorrow
pulls me past the park where you did not
play
and where I wonder again over the color of
your eyes.

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