Friday, October 4, 2013

The Not-End of Grief

Day 202 / Fallen

It's that time of the year again.

The leaves turn amber, and the calender veers toward November, and suddenly I am seeing her dates everywhere.  Events, meetings, and more are scheduled on the day she died, and the day she was born.

And every time, it shocks me.  An electric current running through my bones, and my breath catches and my insides twist, and that part of me that is hollow because of her absence echoes more loudly.

I thought that the first year of grief, of not-having-her, would be the worst.  But now, as we stare down what would have been her second birthday, I am not so sure.

Because last year, I was distracted.  My arms were full, at last, of the sweetest bundle of baby boy I could ever have hoped for.  My eyes were on him, rightly so, and so when her day came my mama soul was too busy (and exhausted) to mark it well.

But now, he has grown up a bit and we're all sleeping a lot more, and suddenly I find myself thinking that this is going to be our hardest year, because it will be the first year when we have the space to fully feel her missing presence.

I am not looking forward to this.

And, somehow, I am.  Because although it burns, this pain is proof of her life, and of my love for both my children.

I don't know how to end this.  Perhaps because I am out of practice, because I haven't written of my daughter in quite some time.  Or perhaps because there is no ending.  There is no neat answer for the grief that stretches out before me, threading its coarse but vibrant color through the tapestry that is the remainder of my life, because the only thing that could snap that thread short is Eve returning to our family in living flesh.  And that is an impossibility.

So I will not-end this post by saying that I cling to hope, that I always remember and miss her, and that her life has made me a better mother to her brother, to our precious, precious boy who somehow became a toddler in the blink of an eye.

The road goes ever on, and I have no choice but to walk it or to stop and sit and deny her life and death and the hole in my heart that can heal but never close.

I'd rather walk, though the path is steep and winding.  Let's walk together.


  1. walking down this path of grief with you. love you

  2. love you. grief sux. i felt that catch too when my dad died a few years ago. it was hard. but you're right - the space to let the soul walk it out and be restored i so healing. prayin grace for you.

  3. 7 years..... I cannot say I know how you feel because I can't image. But, I do know deep loss, and this is the 7th year of not having his life here with us. And it is just now easier to think his name and see his face without tears and pain and sorrow. It's still seems like yesterday...but it is a tiny bit better. 7 years. So walk your walk sweet girl, and cry and never deny. We're with you. And, so is HE.
    I love you Prince Mommy!!!

  4. Your words hold the kind of beauty that aches. The hardest of all loves. You are brave to share this but I suspect you can't go on if you don't. We're made to connect, not just with God but with each other. I'm hearing the echoes of your heart here. They are not empty and you are not alone.

  5. "Because although it burns, this pain is proof of her life, and of my love for both my children."

    This--EXACTLY. The aching and burning and yearning...all mean love when it comes down to it. The only proof that we still have.

  6. I agree wholeheartedly. My daughter's birthday is also coming up very soon ... I am looking forward to celebrating her and validating her sweet existence, but not looking forward to the feelings ...

    How we love them so!


"I am glad you are here with me."
― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Return of the King